


In the Name of the Father

by Zanne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, M/M, Wincest (AU)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 14:56:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanne/pseuds/Zanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens to John after he makes the deal with the YED?</p><p>"Maybe his Demon was playing some sort of joke on him. Maybe it thought this concept of Hell far too perfect for John -  a world where his own sons didn't recognize him, demons had all the power, and John was a eunuch of God, backed by something no more substantial than a ghost."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to astrothsknot, nativestar, and varkelton for beta-ing. Kripke owns all. The Wincest does not occur in what we know as Supernatural, and it barely counts as Wincest in the AU (no sex of any kind!). I decided to call it that just to cover my butt. This story takes place after "In My Time of Dying". I want to make clear that I this story was not written as a condemnation of any organized religion. Father John Winchester is not an asshole because he's a priest, he's just a priest who happens to be an asshole. Any negative connotations should fall solely on the shoulders of the character and not on the religious affiliation or position he fills. (Originally posted: 8/24/2007)

“Father!”

John’s first sensation was that barely cognizant consciousness upon awakening, where everything was still in that half-remembered dream state that prefaced complete wakefulness. He lay wrapped in that fuzzy cotton warmth before the chill of growing perception sent a shiver along his spine, making his muscles tingle with growing alertness.

“Father! _Fuck_! You’re not gonna die on us!”

The warm, floating feeling of bewilderment was quickly overtaken by John’s second sensation – pain. The dull ache of torn skin and pulled muscles, the soft throb of bruised flesh – the sudden sharp stab of agony from pierced and immobile limbs. He felt a fist hit his chest in several quick, repetitious thumps, his heart stuttering feebly as it tried to regain something close to a steady rhythm.

“He’s not waking up, Dean! What’re we going to do?” The familiar voice grew thready with panic, rising in pitch as its owner pleaded for help.

John’s head rocked to the side with the force of the slap, his eyes barely opening as he blinked blearily at the bright light spilling through the far-off door. The echoing aches that he had felt when swimming towards full consciousness flared up in protest, searing flashes of pain igniting all over his body. John groaned softly under his breath, a faint sound of relief coming from the formerly apprehensive voice from moments before.

Something stirred in John, a need to comfort that came even before his own pain. “S’ok, Sam,” he whispered dryly past cracked and peeling lips, his voice barely audible as it clawed its way out of his throat. “Everything’s…OK.”

John managed to focus on the blurry image huddled in front of him, another surge of pain ebbing through him as Dean grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him roughly. “Did my slap cause you brain damage, Father?” Dean asked, a wry grin barely disguising the worry lines etched around his mouth. “Things are so fuckin’ far from OK it’s not even funny.”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam interrupted, shoving him aside to lift a canteen to John’s mouth.

“Take a drink before we try to get you down,” he cajoled lightly, barely tilting the container so that only a trickle of liquid dampened John’s tongue – still enough to make John cough weakly, spitting water over his chin and onto his bared chest. Under his breath, John heard Sam murmur faintly, “ _In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen._ ”

Sam huffed a thankful sigh, muttering quietly to Dean, “He’s clean.”

John lifted his hand to wipe at his mouth – or he tried to, but his arm refused to obey his silent command. Focusing, he tried harder, only to cry out in complaint when a flash of pain traveled along his arm, centering somewhere near his wrist.

Sam leaned in, pressing his hands firmly against John’s shoulders to keep him immobile. “Keep still, Father. The nails are in pretty deep. This is going to be…uncomfortable.”

John furrowed his brow in confusion, rolling his head to the side just enough to catch Dean biting his lower lip in concentration as he nudged the crowbar under the head of the spike in John’s forearm, trying as gently as he could to pry the over-sized nail pinning John’s wrist from the wooden beam. With a muffled grunt Dean heaved, pulling the spike out in a swift yank, sending shards of pain searing along John’s arm and dragging him back into the shelter of cotton shrouded unconsciousness. 

                                             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Is he gonna make it?” Sam’s voice came worriedly, as a sharp tug dulled the ache in John’s wrist.

“Dunno,” Dean replied gruffly from somewhere near Johns’ feet. “He’s lucky they only nailed his arms – feet were clear, but they had him roped to it with barbed wire. Slashed him up pretty bad. They wanted him alive as long as possible, but they wanted it to _hurt_.” Dean’s voice stilled, before adding reluctantly, “Let’s hope he regains full use of his hands. Can’t fight worth a damn without ‘em.”

“He wasn’t much of a fighter to begin with,” Sam said with an attempt at levity. “ _I_ could take him.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed lightly, understanding Sam’s need for hope. “Since you’re such a pansy-ass bitch and all.”

“Boys,” John interrupted with a weak rumble somewhere deep in his chest. “Quit talking while your father’s bleeding to death.”

The two figures stilled, John could sense that, hearing the even pace of their breathing stop as he stirred. Then came Sam’s voice again, sounding both relieved and accusing. “I _told_ you that you hit him too hard. He _does_ have brain damage.”

“Shut it, Sam,” Dean growled. “Help me get him up.”

John felt their arms come around his waist and shoulders, hefting him upright and leaning him against the cool brick of the wall. John winced at the sting of the open wounds on his back before blinking slowly, allowing time for his eyes to adjust to the light in the large room.

John’s eyes landed on Dean first, a huge weight lifting from his chest when he saw his son squatting beside him, apparently in good health despite the large cut that added a startling slash of color across Dean’s forehead. He was…alive and talking and still a sarcastic pain in the ass, but it was _Dean_ and he was _whole_.

Sam thrust his large head in front of John’s line-of-sight, checking John’s pupils for signs of a concussion. His fingers were gentle on John’s pained skin as he propped open the lids to shine a large flashlight into John’s eyes. Sam’s right eye was swollen nearly shut and his lip was torn, a crusty scab almost sealing it closed, but he seemed as intent and focused as Sam would be in this situation and….

…what situation was this exactly?

John managed to look past Sam’s head still doing its shaggy best to block his view, first taking in the shadowy high corners of the apparently abandoned warehouse before his gaze fell onto what was looming up so ominously behind Sam’s broad shoulders.

Several feet away stood a large wooden structure shaped something like an asterisk – the frames forming the structure riveted with puncture holes and stained in various shades of mahogany from the blood that had seeped into the wood. Curls of barbed wire draped around the lower part of the formation, slightly obscured by the two large crates that had been pushed towards it, leaving deep scores in the dirt floor tracking their movements.

Dean followed his eyes, thinking he understood the confusion clouding John’s gaze. “Yep, you’re lucky we found you so fast. You should be _dead_ , Father. I’m surprised it wasn’t set-up in the middle of the public square – it’s not often they get one of your kind up there…not after the armistice.”

“I was…crucified?” John asked, his head feeling heavy and the pulsing sting of his wounds keeping him unfocused. His eyes fell to his lap. “And I’m naked.”

“Nothin’ to be ashamed of on that front, Father,” Dean suggested cheekily. “I guess the ol’ saying _‘use it or lose it’_ doesn’t apply to priests, eh?”

Dean laughed at his own joke, head tilting backward until Sam reached over and punched him sharply on the arm. “Ow! Bitch, why’d you hit me?”

“Don’t make fun of Father John like that, you jerk. It’s _rude_.”

“I wasn’t raised in a Catholic orphanage, altar boy,” Dean reminded Sam with a pointed glare. “The Father knows I’m only kiddin’. Don’t ya, Papa John?”

John furrowed his brow as Sam tucked a blanket carefully around him before going back to binding John’s wounds. Was this all part of the Demon’s bargain? His sons were acting strangely, though Dean was up and about so it seemed the Demon stuck to its side of the deal. The last thing John remembered was sliding the Colt towards the Demon and a sudden tightening in his chest before darkness rushed in and then… _nothing_ – nothing before waking up on the…crucifix?

“Am I in Hell?” John asked gruffly, his voice still rough and tearing the soft tissue of his throat.

Sam and Dean exchanged a meaningful glance, Dean shrugging while mouthing _Sorry!_ in Sam’s direction. “No, Father. I think I just hit you a little too hard to wake ya up. You might have a concussion.”

“We came to save you, Father John,” Sam added, leaning in but refraining from laying familiar hands on him. His eyes were wide with wonder, despite the swelling and bruising on the right side, and contained something John hadn’t seen in Sam since he was a little boy.

Innocence.

 _This wasn’t his son.  
_  
“Who the fuck are you?” John growled, pressing his back flat against the wall despite the protest of his muscles and the pull of the wounds on his skin. John glanced over at Dean, noting a hardness that his own son had never really had, despite his earnest efforts to emulate the image.

 _Neither_ of these men were his boys. How he was so sure, John couldn’t say, but the feeling rang true somewhere in the depths of his brain where instinct ran pure and unfettered.

John began mumbling endlessly under his breath, his body and mind too near the breaking point to remember the ritual he needed. 

 _“…princeps militiae caelestis,  
                                    Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos,   
                                          qui ad perditionem animarum   
                                              pervagantur in mundo….”  
_  
Sam frowned petulantly, giving Dean what could only be described as an I-told-you-so glare. “You _broke_ him. You are _so_ going to Hell.”

Sam edged closer, murmuring soothingly, “It’s Samuel, Father. Samuel and Dean. Remember us? We’ve been at your hostel for months…until our lot was called.”

“Yeah,” Dean added with barely disguised hostility. “You were headin’ us all towards the border when they got you.” Dean turned his head away, studying the ground at his feet as he added bitterly, “We lost the rest of ‘em in the sweep. There’s no one left but me n’ Sam.”

John’s mutterings tapered off as he glanced from Dean to Sam, neither of the boys able to meet his eyes. Sam tentatively touched the split in his lower lip with his tongue as he fidgeted with John’s blanket, his fingers skirting nervously over the edge of the torn fabric. Dean packed up the First-Aid kit, tossing a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie in John’s lap. “These’ll be more comfortable until you heal up a bit,” Dean explained. “Let’s get outta here before any more of those bastards show up.” 

                                              ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 _“Johnny-boy…surprised to see you in one piece. Hoped they’d lop off a few fingers, at least – make it look more realistic.”_

 _John jerked up with a gasp, first glancing at Sam and Dean sitting in the front seat of the car, still staring forward and talking softly as if they hadn’t heard a thing._

 _John turned his head to find himself face-to-face with a small, lizard-like creature lounging along the back of the seat where the heat of the sun pooled under the rear window, its tail twitching like a thinly muscled rope across the torn leather. The creature curled its tail towards John, winding it around John’s bandaged wrist and squeezing just a little, the serrated tip wiping back and forth over the blood staining the white cloth like some sort of sinister metronome keeping time to the steady beat of John’s pulse. Its pointed, bat-like ears flicked forward, giving it the ridiculous look of an overeager Pomeranian asking for a treat._

 _John lolled his head back against the seat, staring up at the roof of the car. “What am I – Fred Flintstone?” he asked incredulously. “Fuck off, Gazoo. I’ve got enough to deal with in my head already. If I’m gonna dream, it’s not gonna be about cartoon characters.” John reconsidered momentarily, “Except maybe She-Ra. She’s a possibility….”_

 _“Tsk-tsk,” the creature replied, its eyes narrowing to burning red slits. “Such language from a man of the cloth. If you weren’t going to Hell already, I’d report you to the Head Office.”_

 _The little imp tightened the grip of its tail around John’s wrist, the prehensile tip toying with the layers of bandage. “I’ll be seeing you again soon, Johnny. It’s time to wake up.” At that, John felt its tail spear through the cloth and into his wound…  
_  
…and John awoke, screaming gruffly at the burning pain in his wrist, blood dripping freely and following the cracks in the leather seat until it was covered in tiny tributaries of his blood. 

                                                      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Where are we?” John asked blindly, feeling the familiar sensation of cool sheets against his skin and the comfort of a soft pillow cradling his head.

“Sshh,” Sam whispered, straightening the blanket around John. “It’s an old place Dean knew about. Go back to sleep.”

John ignored him, forcing himself upright against the headboard. His muscles cramped in complaint and his wrists were useless, but he gritted his teeth, shifting his body until everything faded to a dull ache. While John’s body acclimated to an up-right position, he scanned the room, noting the absence of weapons; he’d already checked under his pillow and his usual knife wasn’t in place. John wasn’t used to feeling so…helpless.

Further investigation revealed that wherever they were, it was owned by someone with some cash on hand. The sheets were silk, the bureau made with cedar – everything had that high gloss that came with an expensive price tag – but it smelled of dust and the faint whiff of rotted linens, like some kind of tomb.

“How’d he know about it?” John demanded, his voice heavy with an underlying demand.

Sam hung his head, picking at the silken coverlet with gnawed fingernails, dried blood forming crescents beneath the nailbeds. He seemed reluctant to share what he knew, glancing at John furtively from the corner of his eye as if hoping he’d somehow fallen asleep. “Belonged to…Deidrich. If a client paid enough, they’d get to bring the boys up here for the weekend.”

John furrowed his brow, uncomprehending. “ _What?_ ”

Sam mistook John’s expression, replying hurriedly, “Don’t worry – no one will find us here! Deidrich’s dead! Dean killed him – ran away; it’s what got him freelancing on the street. Led to his being noticed and assigned a lot number.” Sam subconsciously rubbed at his sleeve, his nervous motions lifting the fabric just enough to reveal part of a series of numbers tattooed on his forearm before he realized what he was doing and his hand skittered away.

“No one uses this place anymore.” Sam curled a leg beneath him, turning to face John as he murmured guiltily, “Don’t tell Dean I said anything. He doesn’t like…remembering.”

Hearing something that John couldn’t, Sam cocked his head like an eager puppy. “Dean’s calling. Try to get some sleep, Father.”

After Sam bounded out the door, John covered his eyes with his hand and tried not to weep for these strangers who so looked like his sons.   



	2. Chapter 2

A few days later, when the agony of merely breathing had faded to a dull throb, John decided it was time to take matters into his own hands. He waited until nightfall when his…no, not _his_ , he had to keep reminding himself of that…when the boys were asleep and the house had fallen utterly silent. He crept down the hall, pausing outside the bedroom door to listen to the steady breaths of the boys before continuing down the stairs. 

John rummaged in the kitchen for some basic supplies, wincing at the dull thuds of the cabinet doors and soft clinking of the lids on the canisters, mentally cursing the lack of electricity that made sneaking through the house an almost Olympic endeavor. He was thankful for the few handfuls of stale herbs he managed to find, figuring _anything_ was better than nothing when it came to something like this. John paused at the foot of the stairs, glancing up to see if he’d disturbed the slumbering occupants before making his way out into the moonlit darkness cloaking the cabin.

The moon shone brightly, a white disc in the sky that gave John all the light necessary for this task. He paused on the stoop, breathing in deep lungfuls of air, the almost startling clarity of the atmosphere cleansing him of the faint feeling of decay underlined by an almost palpable sensation of…wrongness about this house that had sealed itself into his skin while trapped inside. They were somewhere in the mountains – not too far up since the bite of the coming snow was less sharp here – but the air hung heavy with the fresh scent of pine and a stream burbled soothingly somewhere to the left.

John took another sanitizing breath, almost wishing he could bathe in its purity to erase the imagined memories that had taken root in his brain after talking with Sam. With a focused shake of his shoulders, he threw off the distraction, letting the past, his doubts, those stinging words - _if a client paid enough_ – crumble like dust at his feet. It was time for business.

John needed answers and there was only one creature in the world that he knew who would have them.

Just from observation, John knew this wasn’t… _home_. How or why he’d gotten here was a mystery. He’d kept quiet and laid low, gathering what information he could while trying not give himself away. All he knew was that he seemed to be a priest – and how fucked up was _that_? – and his boys weren’t _his_ , not in any biological sense, as far as he could tell. Demons seemed to hold some sway here, and that bothered him almost more than anything else.

Why would the Demon have sent him _here_ , of all places? Was _this_ Hell – a place where demons seemed to rule the world?

Maybe his Demon was playing some sort of joke on him. Maybe it thought this concept of Hell far too perfect for John - a world where his own sons didn’t recognize him, demons had all the power, and John was a eunuch of God, backed by something no more substantial than a ghost.

Yeah, his Demon would find that amusing as…hell.

John reached for a stick, cursing under his breath at his fumbling fingers that resisted his demands. He finally gave up the hope of successfully grasping one of the slender branches, instead trapping one between the flat of his palms and awkwardly tracing the summoning sigil in the dirt. He sprinkled palmfuls of the herbs he had scavenged over the symbol, clumps falling unevenly over the tracks marked in the soil. John knew he wasn’t doing the ritual correctly, but it wasn’t a binding; his soul was already forfeit - he couldn’t lose what no longer belonged to him.

John clumsily fell to one knee, ignoring the pull of the stitches around his ankles, and lit the tea-light candles he’d borrowed from the dining room – six, one for each endpoint of the design. Muffling any sound of discomfort through sheer willpower, John awkwardly tore the bandage off his wrist with his teeth, his fingers too feeble to do much of anything requiring any sort of coordination. He squeezed a few drops of blood onto the summoning sigil until his vision grew cloudy from the pain and he felt his hold on consciousness start to slip. John bit down sharply on his tongue to focus himself before whispering the Demon’s name through blood-coated teeth, his aggravated wound throbbing with every beat of his heart.

Nothing happened.

John sat back on his heels, waiting patiently for its appearance – it _did_ like to put on a show, after all – when he heard a voice cut harshly through the darkness.

“Why are you summoning that one? It’s _dead_.” Dean leaned against a pine tree and crossed his arms over his chest, looking like some sort of debauched Boy Scout out for a nature hike with his disheveled hair curling wildly in all directions. “It was destroyed in the demons’ First Wave. Led directly to the legislation that made it illegal to kill anyone who was possessed.” Dean smirked grimly, his eyes hooded. “It had picked the right tool – a senator’s son. You’re old enough to remember the uproar firsthand, Father.”

Dean dropped his arms and stalked closer, his body strangely sinuous, more of a dancer’s or a swimmer’s build than the compact bulkiness John was used to. With a strange light burning somewhere in the depths of his eyes – something akin to hate, John would have guessed – Dean leaned in and stated bluntly, “You told us _never_ to summon one alone – too dangerous, you said. Too many ways to fuck it up.”

Dean shoved at John’s shoulder, pushing him to the ground amidst his failed conjuring and straddling him, leaning the weight of his forearm against John’s throat. “But this is the _second_ time I’ve caught you doing it. Yeah, you told us it’s possible to use lower level demons for information, but the last time was right before you disappeared…and our camp was raided.”

John struggled, the lithe form above him far stronger than he would have guessed just from looking at him. Dean pressed down harder, cutting off John’s airflow as he hissed dangerously, flecks of spittle dotting John’s cheeks, “Were you the one who betrayed us, Father? Someone did – and I know it wasn’t me and I know it wasn’t Sammy. We’re the only three left in our original packaging so that puts you at number one on my list.”

“No,” John gasped, unwilling to fight back. The boy probably had every right to hate this body John inhabited. “ _I_ didn’t do it.”

Dean’s arm went slack, lessening the pressure on John’s throat. He sat back, pausing momentarily before he gracefully rose to his feet. Dean cast an assessing eye on John, the moon starkly outlining Dean’s figure, yet leaving his expression cast in shadow.

“I don’t know why, but I believe you,” Dean admitted, the line of his shoulders belying his seemingly candid statement. He turned to walk back to the house, pausing to warn John over his shoulder, “If I find out any different, I’ll kill you myself. I won’t let you hurt Sam.” With that, Dean melted into the darkness surrounding the cabin, leaving John to wonder what kind of man Father John Winchester really had been.

                                                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John was hesitant about his reception the next morning, fully expecting to find himself left alone in the house with nothing but his memories to keep him company. Despite his many years walling people off, even his own sons, John was afraid to be alone – even when he’d been an asshole to everyone he knew, even to the point of being _shot_ at, there was always _someone_ to run to should he need it.

Here, even the Demon wasn’t around to serve as his touchstone.

The boys’ bedroom had been empty - the only sign of their presence in this house the wrinkled sheets and the dusty handprints marking the tabletops they had inadvertently brushed against. John sighed, already inexplicably feeling the loss of the strangers that wore his sons’ faces.

John listlessly crept toward the kitchen, hoping to find something to eat that didn’t require too much manual dexterity when he heard a husky laugh slinking down the hallway. John paused outside the entrance to the kitchen, staying slightly hidden in the shadows of the archway as he observed the two men that seemed to rely on him, deservedly so or not.

Dean was leaning against Sam’s back, trying to look over his shoulder as Sam spread peanut butter on a piece of bread, both boys looking far happier and more relaxed than John had ever seen in the short time he’d been with them. True, he’d been unconscious or asleep for most of it, but there was a marked difference in the lines of their faces in this moment of solitude, when no one else in the world was watching. He propped himself against the doorframe, staying silent as Sam turned his head towards Dean with a playful smile, Dean’s face disappearing into the curve of Sam’s throat.

This was a little too much for John – they may not be his children, but it was still…disconcerting. He roughly coughed and cleared his throat, stalking into the room as loudly as he could.

Dean gave him a death glare over Sam’s shoulder, his cheeks flushed with a mix of resentment and passion. Upon catching sight of John, Sam shied away from Dean, taking several steps away from the shelter of Dean’s body and focusing on his breakfast with an odd sort of absorption.

“Morning, Father John,” Sam began, his voice still breathy, a flush of guilt staining his cheeks. “I was gonna bring some breakfast to you. You shouldn’t be up, yet.”

“Can’t be sitting around on my ass all the time,” John chuckled awkwardly. God, he wished he had a cup of coffee – he would kill for some caffeine right now.

Sam blinked in surprise at his choice of words, but said nothing, passing him a piece of peanut-buttered bread with a furtive smile.

“But you do it so _well_ ,” Dean grumbled under his breath. “Why change things now?” Sam glared at him, and Dean reluctantly relented with an apologetic shrug in Sam’s direction – he said nothing to John.

John studied them unobtrusively, noting the far less relaxed atmosphere now that he was here; he was even more convinced that Father John Winchester had been kind of a prick – so, not much change then. John snorted ruefully, making both men glance over at him in surprise – and a little apprehension on Sam’s part – before they refocused on their breakfasts.

“Do we have any weapons?” John asked suddenly, wiping crumbs from his stubbly chin with the back of his hand.

Both boys looked blank, until Sam offered hesitantly, “We’ve got your Bible, Father. You always said God was all the protection we needed.”

“Not as much as a shotgun or a hunting knife,” John grumbled with a muffled curse. “I was a God-damn prick _and_ an idiot.”

Dean huffed a laugh before admitting slowly, “I’ve got a switchblade.” With doubt evident in his eyes, he reached into his back pocket and tugged it free, a feat in itself considering how tightly he wore his jeans.

“You any good with it?” John asked challengingly.

Dean flicked it open with an artful twist of his wrist, the blade’s edge gleaming threateningly in the light of the kitchen. His eyes glittered predatorily and his tongue darted out to swipe his upper lip, alerting John to the fact that Dean was looking forward to a confrontation with him.

“You told me you got rid of that!” Sam cried accusingly.

“I wasn’t gonna leave us unprotected,” Dean said pleadingly, turning in Sam’s direction.

“Never pull a weapon unless you intend to use it!” John barked sharply, startling both Sam and Dean into silence. “First lesson.”

John snapped his elbow forward, hitting Dean’s wrist with the hard knob of bone, making the knife clatter loudly onto the tiled floor. “Second lesson – don’t allow yourself to get distracted if you’re even just _thinking_ about a fight. Stay _focused_.”

John glanced at the window over the sink. “Are all the doors and windows salted?”

“Uh…no,” Sam admitted sheepishly. “We didn’t have enough to do the whole house. Only our bedrooms and the kitchen.” Dean knelt down to pick up his knife, his back bowed as if in contrition at John’s feet.

“Place is too damn big,” John muttered, again wishing for coffee, even if he had to drink it through a straw.

Dean suddenly flung himself at John’s knees, taking the older man down with a muffled grunt. John steeled his will not to whimper as the cuts on his back viciously complained at this treatment, instead tucking and rolling with the force of Dean’s momentum. Dean clawed his way up John’s body, teeth bared and the knife grasped tightly in his fist. John twisted to the side, catching his elbow on Dean’s temple, knocking Dean from atop him so John could get to his feet. John kicked out, sweeping the blade from Dean’s hand before stepping back and studying Dean huddled up the floor with a hand pressed to the side of his head.

“You’ve got good instincts, but you’re sloppy,” John said firmly, as if instructing a disobedient child. “I can’t use my hands and I _still_ disarmed you. We need to work on that.” John glanced over at Sam, standing in obvious befuddlement in the kitchen, his mouth hanging open. “I’m guessin’ neither of you have been trained to defend yourselves.”

John looked around carefully, leaving the two boys staring at him, Sam in amazement and Dean with a grudging respect mixed with intense dislike. “Now, do we have any fuckin’ guns in this place?”

                                                                       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“God- _damn_ , that hurts,” John panted softly, wishing he could at least clench his hands to relieve his discomfort. “Human skin isn’t like hemming a pair of pants!”

John felt a surge of guilt when he saw Sam cringe at his harsh tone, so he added lightly, “But you’re doing a good job.” Sam looked so blatantly grateful for those few kind words that John felt a little sick. “Were you the one to sew me up the first time?”

“Yeah,” Sam admitted with embarrassment. “We learned some basic First Aid at the hostel. Not much, but enough to get by. Just never needed to use it before.”

“How’d you get there again?” John asked casually. He needed to know if this Sam’s story was anything like what he made of Dean’s.

Sam blinked in surprise, eyes flicking upwards to study John’s face for a second before refocusing intently on the stitches. “As a distraction, Sam…from the pain.” John allowed a flash of discomfort to sweep over his features to encourage Sam to talk.

Sam nodded guiltily, as if he should have thought of the idea on his own. “You know the story, Father. The demons focused on the cast-offs. First, it was the homeless. Demons promised to clean up the streets – make productive citizens. Then it was the prisons.”

John grunted softly and Sam took it as a sign of pain, stuttering an apology. “Sorry, Father! I’ll be more careful.” 

“S’ok, Sam,” John replied evenly. “Keep going.”

Sam continued, his steady, almost hypnotic tone keeping John distracted from the uncomfortable twinges of the needle piercing torn flesh. “But, you know how it went, Father. The bodies wore out too quickly – too much hard living. Plus, it made some people nervous to have murderers and child molesters with added strength and telekinesis…that kind of thing.”

Sam fidgeted restlessly before taking a breath and continuing with his stitching. “So they turned to the children – the unwanted ones. Seems like the demons preferred the challenge an innocent presented over the easy pickings in a prison. Orphanages became like…stockyards, keeping the bodies healthy. While it was illegal to mark a child before the age of eleven, you knew who was on the list – better food, better clothes, better education. Got to the point people were willing to give up their kids to ensure them an enhanced, longer life – or just for the money, who knows?” Sam shrugged half-heartedly. “Psychics…,” here Sam ducked his head, “went for a high price, even if their powers hadn’t manifested.”

“Your parents _sold_ you?” John asked in disbelief, putting the unspoken pieces together.

Sam laughed uncomfortably. “I was better off than Dean, wasn’t I? Didn’t have to protect myself like he did. Everything was _given_ to me.” Sam said it bitterly, as if the idea lay like bile on his tongue. “Dean deserved better than what he got. His pretty face got him selected as a potential when he was busted for soliciting.” Sam looked both horrified and insulted. “After a full medical evaluation, he was tagged.”

“But he wasn’t…taken?”

“God, no! He was only fifteen. You know possessions aren’t legal until you turn eighteen, and only if your lot’s called… _then_ you get taken. No, he was sent to juvie and was taken care of there until he got too old.”

Sam huffed a breath, as if the story tired him. “We both left at eighteen, could’ve gone anywhere and we would’ve been cared for until our time, but we didn’t want to be controlled by…them. We made our own ways for a few years – I even studied some pre-law at Stanford - until we both wound up at your hostel. Heard it was a place to hide out, that you made sure we could live free. We were OK until our lot was called at the autumnal equinox, and then we had to get out of town before they found us.”

Sam hesitated, before yanking up his shirtsleeve to show John the tattoo on his arm. “The last few numbers determine your lot - both of us were in the same grouping, despite the age difference. Dean should’ve been tagged _years_ earlier than I was. It was…fate.”

“Why didn’t anyone fight this?” John asked in frustration. “Kill all those bastards and send them back to Hell?”

“They _did_. The First Wave was nearly eradicated, but with all the ‘innocents’ lost, most of the men and women were imprisoned or executed for murder.”

John winced as Sam snapped the thread, not from physical pain, but from…loss. His…friends were probably dead – _gone_ , no one left to help him. “What about the Church then? Other religious groups? They can’t be pleased with all these evil bastards walkin’ around in human suits.”

Sam glanced up at John, his eyes wide and startled before he stuttered out, “You know the Church’s policy on possessions – it’s even in the Consortium’s by-laws. If you get possessed, you must have committed some kind of mortal sin. It’s God’s punishment if you get taken.”

John’s eyes slid closed and he took a deep breath to calm himself. Trust those in power to sit back on their asses and do nothing. “Consortium?”

Sam chuckled dryly. “I know you like to think Christianity rules the world, but there are other religions out there. It’s kind of like the UN for the various religions. They had to decide on the policy to deal with what was happening here - a middle ground to protect what they could.” Sam shrugged. “This is what they came up with. Not that they had a lot of options left.”

John kind of understood that, though he still found the idea revolting. Put limitations on the devil you know rather than deal with the potential fallout of unrestrained conquest. John snorted to himself; that’s how Poland wound up speaking German during World War II. “The government passed laws protecting the possessed…” John muttered absently, ignoring the tug of the stitches as Sam moved to a new spot on his back.

“It was a _mess_ ,” Sam explained fervently, not realizing John’s statement hadn’t been aimed at him. “Take the abortion issue and times it by a million. You’ve got living, breathing people who are capable of making decisions and serving in society; they just happen not to be the original bodies’ inhabitants. Law doesn’t recognize the right of the soul – never has. Just the rights of the people who can vote. Muddied the legal waters for _years_.”

John could see the side of Sam that drew him toward practicing law when Sam spoke. It was the first time John had seen the boy so confident about anything since he’d met him. Sam’s voice was full of this earnest passion that was almost humbling. John kind of liked this Sam.

“JFK started a movement to eradicate the laws protecting the demons – being the first Catholic president, a lot of people thought there might be change. It was the dawn of a new era.” Sam’s gentle tugs on the stitches grew harsher. “Some say that’s why he was assassinated. Too much of a threat to the way things were.”

John silenced his hiss of pain behind clenched teeth. “What’s this about the equinox?”

“Pagan practices, Father. Old Gods die in Autumn, new ones rise in Spring. The lots are called on the autumnal equinox when the demons are trading in bodies that have worn out. We have to register and then we have until the vernal equinox when…” Sam paused, his hand trembling slightly, “…when the demons take up residence in those who’ve been called.”

Sam taped on a bandage and said lightly, “I think maybe we should take you to a doctor, Father Winchester. Your…memory isn’t so good anymore and you haven’t been acting like yourself lately.”

“Maybe dying woke me up,” John replied gruffly. “About damn time.”

                                                                    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that evening, Dean cornered John in the kitchen, the light of their candles casting the room in an otherworldly glow that muddied everything in varying degrees of shadow. John wasn’t sure what this was in regards to – Dean seemed to have so many issues with Father John Winchester that picking the right one would have been impossible odds.

“Why are we _still_ here?” Dean hissed, his desperation disguised by an overt display of anger. “You promised to have us over the border by now!” Dean slammed his hand on the table, causing their candles to jump and nearly topple over. As if realizing what a racket he was making, Dean clenched his hand into a fist, corralling it against his side as he glanced over his shoulder at the door – almost as if expecting Sam to loom up behind him.

When Sam didn’t appear, Dean turned back to John, eyes hard as flint. “You’re well enough to sit in the car. When are we leaving?”

“If you haven’t realized,” John began, “we’re _all_ beat to Hell. Don’t you think someone would notice?” John held out his hands, the fingers barely able to move. “I can’t protect you like this. We need time to recoup.”

“I’ve heard rumors that they’ll have hellhounds on our trail soon enough; they don’t take kindly to runners. They won’t care how much damage is done because the demons can manage it when they take over,” Dean spat out bitterly, unnerved by being stuck in the one place he had sworn never to return. “But Sam and I will feel every bit of it before they’re through.”

“I can keep you safe,” John vowed. “We have the time – they don’t expect to see you until spring, right?”

“If we didn’t need you as a chaperone for checkpoints, I’d leave your ass here to _rot_. I could make it there with Sam a lot faster, with or without your connections,” Dean told him directly as he ignored John’s words, his back stiff with apprehension.

Dean took a shuddering breath, as if trying to hold in his conflicting anger and fear, closing his eyes for a moment as he admitted softly, “You know I can’t pay you any more. I gave you everything I had…but maybe we can make a trade.”

In a sudden surge forward, Dean trapped John against the counter, a hand on either side of him to pen John in place as they stood face-to-face. Deans’ eyes narrowed in challenge. “I know you want it, Father. Men like you…I knew a few of ‘em - nimble-tongued liars with prayers on their lips and sin in their hearts.”

John’s eyes widened in mute shock, and he found himself unable to react to what Dean was implying. “I’ve seen you lookin’ at me… _Father_.” The name came out drenched in bitterness and John thought he might finally understand where Dean’s hatred came from. “Watchin’ me when you thought no one was lookin’.”

Dean pressed his groin against John’s, grinding seductively against him as his eyes grew heavy-lidded and his voice purred in a smoky rasp that made the hairs on the back of John’s neck rise in panic. “You can have it, if you want,” Dean offered, his tongue darting out to wet his upper lip, eyes glimmering with an almost believable heat. “Just get Sammy and me across the border safely and I’ll do _anything_.”

John finally snapped back into reality when Dean leaned in to catch John’s mouth with his own, John’s face wan with revulsion as he clumsily pushed Dean away, feeling nothing more than an almost irresistible urge to throw up.

“ _No_ ,” John spat out forcefully. “I don’t want _that_. I’ll help you, but…not for anything like that.”

Dean squinted at him suspiciously, as if doubting his word, one hip still cocked provocatively to display a prominent curve of hipbone over the low-slung waist of what appeared to be a pair of Sam’s jeans. With a curt nod, Dean turned to leave before he paused in the entryway and threw back over his shoulder, “Remember, the offer’s on the table. Just get us somewhere safe…and _soon_.”

Once Dean was gone, John spent the next ten minutes dry-heaving over the sink, unable to get the image of the man with his son’s face so convincingly pantomiming lust just to ensure that he and Sam lived to see another day.   



	3. Chapter 3

Training began the next morning. John’s body – the betraying bastard that it was – wasn’t up for even a jog, and may not even have recognized that it was morning without a couple (or six) Danishes in its belly. Not only was Father John Winchester a two-faced bastard, he was a _fat_ bastard at that.

John hated him even more. It’s not that John was necessarily a vain man, but paunches, in John’s opinion, only looked good on pregnant women, not middle-aged priests.

So John sent the boys jogging on a short trail he had walked that morning – not without obstreperous complaints from Dean, Sam just nodding compliantly at whatever John said which freaked John the fuck out – telling them he expected them back in, at the most, twenty minutes.

They came back in thirty-two minutes and forty-seven seconds, Sam looking as if he’d lost a lung somewhere in the woods. This told John that while they appeared fit, it was obviously mostly for show rather than anything useful. This was just _great_.

Next came the hand-to-hand, and since John’s hands were pretty much useless thanks to the unfashionable wrist piercings he’d been sporting when he awoke here, this went over even better than jogging.

Dean absolutely put his foot down – John could see the temptation to plant the aforementioned foot in John’s ass to really underline his point – and refused to do anything more John demanded of them until he fucking explained his plan in explicit detail about how he was going to get them over the border before their time was up.

Sam straightened his spine, standing at his full height – John actually forgot how impressively large Sam was until moments like these when he was using his height to make an impression – and said clearly, “You don’t need to be here if you don’t want to be, Dean. No one is making you stay.”

A flash of hurt quickly crossed Dean’s face, and the fight was sapped from him when Sam turned his back on him to face John. “Teach me, Father,” Sam requested simply. “I don’t want to be weak anymore.”

At that open expression of need, Dean came to stand quietly beside Sam, bumping his shoulder against Sam’s to show his understanding and support. Dean may hate John, but if Sam needed this, then Dean was going to be here.

John decided to start with some basic self-defense maneuvers. Anything more complicated might result in any or all of them winding up in traction.

“God- _da_ …um, good going, Sam,” John amended quickly, realizing that Sam’s continually horrified expression came more from John’s cursing than the exertions he was putting them through. “But next time, bend at the knee and _then_ lift, OK?” Sam nodded happily, asking Dean to attack him once more.

Once Sam successfully threw Dean, he laughed excitedly, running around in a circle around his fallen foe, waving his fists triumphantly in the air over his head. “I did it!” Sam crowed jubilantly.

“Wait until tomorrow, bitch,” Dean grumbled, barely managing to hide his proud smile at Sam’s accomplishment. “Then you’ll know what pain really is.”

“Try it, Dean! I am the almighty master of hand-to-hand!” At that, he dove onto Dean with a yell of triumph, which led to the two wrestling in the grass like clumsy puppies.

When John noted hands wandering into locales problematic for his viewing, he coughed loudly, Sam curling into a tense huddle away from Dean. “I, uh…I’m gonna go take a shower,” Sam said, quickly getting to his feet and scuttling towards the house like a nervous crab.

Dean watched him go from his position on the grass, his face a contrary mix of frustration and affection. “Why are you such an asshole?” Dean asked, turning the full heat of his gaze onto John. “He isn’t _meant_ to be a priest. You all brainwashed him at that damned orphanage, implying that it was the only way to save his soul.”

Dean’s eyes grew hooded, that familiar seething hatred darkening the bright green of his gaze. “Hasn’t done _you_ much good, has it?”

John felt uncomfortable even broaching the subject, but he needed to make things clear. “I’m not making Sam do _anything_. It seems to me that…,” here John paused, not quite sure how to word his observation. “Sam’s made his decision, hasn’t he? You two share a…room.”

Dean looked pained, dropping his gaze to the ground between his knees. “It’s not like that. The nightmares…visions, whatever the fuck you want to call them…are really… _bad_. He never let anyone know how bad they were.” Dean glanced up at John, squinting against the harsh light of the sun over his shoulder. “He sleeps better when I’m there. I watch out for him.”

Dean pushed himself upright, brushing dirt off his pants as he got to his feet. “Don’t make him hate himself for…caring about someone like me,” Dean said, his tone almost pleading before he shut himself closed and loped back towards the house. 

                                                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 _“Hello again, John-boy,” the small, green imp said in an almost friendly fashion. “How’s tricks?”_

 _It narrowed its coal-burning eyes in Dean’s direction, studying the young man who sat playing cards with Sam at the kitchen table across from where John was lounging in the living room. It flicked one ear forward, adding in prurient curiosity, “Gotten into his pants, yet? Only cost you a few hundred, I hear…but **totally** worth it.”_

 _It twitched both ears forward, forked tongue curling out obscenely. “He’s a nice piece of ass, isn’t he? It’s no wonder we want him so badly – just **imagine** the fun we’ll have with him as a host!”_

 _“Fuck off,” John growled. “Don’t you **dare** talk about him like that.”_

 _“Oh? Did I insult your priestly sensibilities, Father?” the demon asked snidely._

 _“You insult my sensibilities by merely existing,” John replied, his eyes focusing on the creature with an almost predatory delight.  
_   
_The demon snorted, its disdain obvious as it went back to leering at the boys seated at the table. “Ahhhh, but the young one is so **pure**. We don’t get many of those. It’ll be so much **fun** to break him in.”_

 _John’s hand snapped out, working just as well as he wanted in this dreamscape they were currently occupying, catching the creature around the throat. “Shut **up** ,” John demanded, giving it a rough shake. “Just ***shake*** shut ***shake*** up!” ***shake***_

 _“Oooh, don’t play so rough, Johnny-boy,” the imp purred, its tail caressing lasciviously along John’s arm. “You’re making me entertain naughty thoughts about you.”_

 _John dropped the little demon like it was diseased and it landed gracefully on its hind legs, using its whip-like tail for balance. “You’ve been off the radar for **weeks** since we last spoke, John. We’re wondering where you’re hiding with our precious packages.” The creature bared its teeth, its fangs glinting sharply in the dim light of the room. “Bring them to us as you agreed or there will literally be Hell to pay.”_

 _The lizard-like demon eyed John speculatively, cocking its head to the side and adding as an appreciative after-thought, “You’re lookin’ good. You lost weight, Father?”  
_  
“Father….Father John! Are you awake?” Sam called again, rousing John from his stupor. He flashed the deck of cards at John, the poker chips scattered across the table in a wash of colors. “You want to play?”

“I think I already am,” John muttered raspily, wiping his hand over his eyes in thought. 

                                            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

No matter where John wound up, it seemed he’d always have his own personal pet demon to make his life worth living. Maybe it was the new IT fashion accessory – he’d just been ahead of his time. If John hadn’t already been convinced that Father John Winchester had been an asshole, having realized that his dream visitor was _real_ and not just a pain-induced hallucination certainly cemented his opinion.

What this meant, John wasn’t sure. He still wasn’t convinced that this wasn’t all some huge joke – that he hadn’t been placed in his own personal Disneyland of torment to spend eternity waiting in line for whatever came next. 

After all, things seemed almost…normal – Winchester normal, that was. He had his boys, or men that oftentimes reminded him of his boys, even if they sometimes freaked him out with the occasional inappropriate touching. Sam had that open and guileless laugh that he remembered his Sam having, and Dean had his Dean’s wicked, and often utterly ridiculous, sense of humor, making even John break out into laughter at the most inopportune moments.

Despite the role reversals of Sam and Dean when it came to dealing with John – not that Dean had ever embraced religion as this Sam seemed to have, but he _had_ tended to be more agreeable to John’s presence – this felt like…family. Not necessarily _his_ family, but _a_ family nonetheless. Even Dean had started to greet John relatively pleasantly rather than looking as if he wished John would drop dead on the spot. 

It made John realize what he'd been missing.

They had training – Sam and Dean had made remarkable progress in the little time they’d had, and even John was able to use his hands to some degree at this point and had firmed up the flabby mess left behind by the asshole-formerly-known-as-Father-John-Winchester.

John thought maybe he’d be cool and just shorten that to a sigil like Prince did, at some point, because it took up a lot of headspace.

John still had no idea what was going on – not that such a thing was unusual, but John didn’t like to admit it. The little bit of reading – anything internet related was impossible without an active phone line or electricity – he’d done had pretty much backed up everything Sam and Dean had said.

The tagged ones – the Chosen was the polite term – had travel restrictions. Until they were officially possessed, they couldn’t leave the US borders – which meant no boats, no planes, no trips to Tijuana for cheap tequila. Both Canada and Mexico had restricted borders, limiting access from the US so that potential problems didn’t spill over into their territory. It’s not like the demons didn’t have other ways to get wherever they wanted to go – give up the human host and they could travel anywhere via their “underground” connections.

But these demons had worked too hard to get where they were. They were willing to deal with the constrictions beset by the sanctified borders and customs agencies across the globe now that they had their own little paradise established so firmly on American soil.

From what John could gather, demonic possessions still occurred around the globe – the outsiders just had to deal with possessed who were not so open about their state. So it was probably pretty much the same on the outside, with fewer numbers of demons hiding amongst the humans to have a little fun – just like he had dealt with back home.

So it appeared that on US soil, the demons could be out and proud, while everywhere else they were still relegated as in the closet.  This left those unwilling to be a demon's future host relying on the services of "coyotes" like Father John Winchester to get them across the border safely.   

When John asked questions about the current foreign policy regarding demonic possessions, Dean and Sam gave each other that look John was becoming far too familiar with. They were still convinced he had brain damage due to some of his questions, but he could live with that.

They’d gone on scavenging missions to nearby cabins – nearby in the sense that it was only a few miles hike to get to them – fortunately abandoned this time of year. They picked up a few hunting rifles, a couple of revolvers, any ammunition they could find, salt, as well as canned goods and a few items of clothing.

Sam was, at first, horrified at the outright thievery, but Dean explained that they needed it more than strangers who weren’t even there did, and completely garbled the parables of the Good Samaritan and the visiting angel trying to convince him. Apparently, Dean had been at least half-listening during Sunday sermons at the hostel.

Sam reluctantly agreed when he saw John packing up a silver carving knife with a wickedly sharp blade. The rest of the silver went in the bottom of the pack for trade or melting into bullets.

The boys had learned some basic shooting skills; their aim wasn’t fantastic, but they’d moved beyond Dean’s keep-plugging-it-until-it-stops-moving mentality. It was a fine attitude to have when ammunition was readily available, but with only a few boxes, targets had to be a little more choice.

It was time to take this show on the road – a moving target was more difficult to capture. 

                                                         ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Impala growled roughly as it prowled the badly paved back-roads, in far better condition than her counterpart, but still as loyal as a Labrador. Dean smiled brightly at nothing in particular, just glad to be doing _something_ besides sitting in the middle of nowhere waiting to die. His hands caressed the steering wheel with a proprietary affection as he captained their craft down the black rivers of asphalt flowing through the cities and towns leading temptingly ever North-ward.

Some things never changed.

Well, _one_ thing had changed. John no longer was commanding the troop from the driver’s seat; he’d been relegated to the back with the cast-off jackets, empty water bottles and coffee cups that accumulated in the wheel-wells.

John made do with the newspaper he liberated from the last diner they dropped by, trying to occupy his restless mind and to avoid falling asleep. He didn’t trust that his own brain wouldn’t serve as some kind of tracking device now that they were out and about. With his own body betraying him with his nearly useless hands, John almost felt he couldn’t even trust himself to do the most basic tasks – much less sleep.

He absently looked down at the bandages still encasing his wrists, his fingers twitching slowly as he tried to make a fist. John could do it if he tried, but he’d definitely lost mobility. He may never be able to play the violin again, but a shotgun was a possibility. John snorted quietly in self-disgust - God, he hated feeling so _useless_.

The strain of extended movement made John’s hand cramp into a claw and he bit down on his tongue to conceal his grunt of discomfort. He couldn’t let the boys know exactly how worthless he really was – John had the fine motor skills of a kindergartener wearing mittens, didn’t have any of these…what should he call them?...underground railroad connections the boys seemed to assume he had, and he certainly wasn’t a God-damned priest with the ability to pass any kind of security checkpoints - because Dean might just drop him off at the side of the road in a fit of pique. John couldn’t protect this Sam and Dean unless he was with them.

With a cautious glance at the boys talking quietly in the front seat, John used his other hand to gently massage the feeling back into his fingers, the paper falling into a half-crumpled ball in his lap. As the pain receded from his digits, John’s eyes focused on the wrinkled picture in the Metro section – that of a young girl with two unruly pigtails and a gap-toothed grin; the bland blue background placed it as a school photo. The caption read: _Joanna Miles, 8, missing since last Tuesday._

John froze, his eyes scanning the article before he had time to let out his next breath.

 _ **Schlangehaus, MO** \- Late last Tuesday night, Mr. and Mrs.  
                         Thomas Miles called police to report a break-in. When police  
                         arrived, they found the parents hysterical over their missing  
                         daughter. Joanna Miles, a third grader at Mt. Rowan Elementary,  
                         was missing from her bedroom. This is the sixth such disappear-  
                         ance in the last three months. Police are baffled._

 _“The door was opened from the inside,” states Chief of Police  
                         Ronald Gilser. “It may just be a spate of runaways. There’s no  
                         sign of forced entry – the intruder would have to have been a  
                         ghost.”  
_  
 _Neighbors reported seeing nothing unusual. “My dog was  
                         barking like crazy,” Sandy Kregson said. “We thought it was  
                         raccoons.” Similar disappearances have occurred throughout the  
                         small town of Schlangehaus since August. The FBI has express-  
                         ed an interest in the case, though no reports have been made of  
                         anyone matching the missing childrens’ descriptions crossing  
                         state lines….  
_  
John let out a disgruntled sigh. “Where’s Schlangehaus?”

Dean glanced at him in the rearview mirror, his brow furrowing in annoyance. “Twenty miles east – just saw the road sign. Why?”

“I got some business there,” John replied evenly.

“What _kind_ of business?”

“None of _yours_ ,” John snapped, his cheeks flushing with frustration. Why did Dean have to be so contrary?

“C’mon, Dean” Sam muttered, resting a hand on Dean’s knee. “What could it hurt to stop for a bit? We’ve been on the road for a few days now and it sounds like an…interesting place to visit.”

“They better have some freakin’ fantastic strudel served by big-boobed barmaids in liederhosen,” Dean grumbled under his breath to Sam. “With beer mugs as large as my head…or I’m gonna be _pissed_.” With another half-hearted glare in the rearview mirror, Dean pulled a U-turn and headed down the road to Schlangehaus. 

                                       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean was more than a _little_ pissed when he saw the actual town of Schlangehaus. If he had dreams of large-breasted women with a mug of beer in one hand and a pastry in the other, they were utterly dashed when he pulled onto the main thoroughfare.

The average age of people in this town had to be somewhere in the 60s. It was a place on its last legs, with the young folks leaving for better opportunities in larger cities miles away.

“I’ve died and gone to Granny Hell,” Dean grumbled, slouching behind the wheel with a scowl marring his features. Sam glanced at him from the corner of his eye, barely hiding his grin at Dean’s discomfort. “So what do ya need, Grandpa?” Dean asked John, keeping his eyes glued to the road. “Polygrip or Depends?”

“Shut up,” Sam said, slapping Dean on the arm with the back of his hand. “This looks like a nice enough place. Where do you want to go, Father Winchester?”

“Library,” John replied, already fiddling with his seat belt.

Sam arched an eyebrow, turning slightly in his seat to face John in the back. “The library? You sure?”

“Yeah, the library. You two can go get something to eat.”

Dean’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white from the strength of his grip. “No, I think we’ll stay with you,” he stated, a touch of suspicion darkening his tone. “Wouldn’t want you to get… _lost_.”

Sam just rolled his eyes at Dean before concentrating back on John. “Don’t you think…uh…you should get dressed then?” Sam asked, indicating John’s outfit with a wave of his hand.

John glanced down at his jeans, his plaid workman’s shirt left open over a wrinkled black T-shirt. “What? I need a tie for the library?”

“No,” Sam disagreed, shaking his head slightly. “But you do need a collar.” With that, Sam motioned to his throat, swiping a wide band across his Adam’s apple.

Realization came slowly, and John’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Oh, shit.”   



	4. Chapter 4

John ran a finger under his cleric’s collar, fidgeting uncomfortably with the seemingly tight band. “This thing is choking me,” he grumbled under his breath, giving it one last yank before focusing back on the boys. “Is it on right?”

John held out his arms with an almost helpless shrug, his cheeks slightly flushed with embarrassment as he allowed himself to be judged. Sam and Dean glanced quizzically at each other, hiding their concern at John’s inability to remember how to properly wear an outfit they used to see him in on a daily basis back at the hostel.

Dean snorted to relieve the tension, glancing over at John from beneath his lashes and studying the black fabric draped loosely over John’s frame. “Dude, your dress is too big.”

Sam frowned at Dean as he hissed, “It’s a cassock. Don’t be such a jerk.”

“It’s a _dress_ ,” Dean reiterated, refusing to feel an iota of guilt for giving John shit despite Sam’s best efforts to civilize him.

Sam looked ready to continue the argument when John cut in. “He’s right. I’m wearing a damn dress.” John grunted in dismay, biting his lower lip as he awkwardly tugged at the sash around his waist, trying to tighten the garment enough so that it didn’t hang quite so loosely around him.

“You’ve lost some weight, Father. Let’s just fix this a little….” Moving slowly as he would towards a potentially aggressive animal, Sam reached out, gently tightening the fascia around John’s waist and straightening the sash to hang smoothly down the length of John’s leg. John kept his head turned away, his eyes squeezed closed, unable to take this final blow to his pride - perhaps the greatest of his many sins. He tried to clench his useless hands, able to manage slack fists but nothing more, before allowing his fingers to relax and hang loosely at his sides, permitting himself to be straightened and tucked like an unruly child.

“There we go, Father. Good enough for God.” Sam gave him a hesitant smile, eyes glimmering behind the curtain of his bangs as he hung his head timidly, denying his own stature by curling in on himself as he stood beside John and turned him towards the mirror.

John studied the final effect - how the black cloth clung to his frame, draping around his hips and thighs, giving the impression of subtle strength despite the relatively feminine attributes of the cut. The white collar peeping from behind the black fabric framed his tanned skin, off-setting his black hair and beard while making his deep hazel eyes glow almost green against the darkness of the cloth. 

“It’ll do,” Dean admitted reluctantly, mirroring John’s own thoughts.

“It’ll _have_ to.” 

                                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Interesting fact about this world – knowledge was still considered to be power, and not everyone was allowed to access it. Representatives from both sides were allowed entry to any halls of learning or repositories of knowledge, as a preventative measure to maintain equality in either camp; therefore, licensed holy officials of any religion and the possessed were allowed to research whatever they wished.

Limitations fell on the lay people. Those marked for future possession were watched, everything they researched was logged and recorded so that anyone trying to find a way out could be…reindoctrinated. The tattoos on Sam’s and Dean’s arms were, in effect, their library cards, their ATM cards, their credit cards, their driver’s licenses…whatever numerical representation that existed for them was reduced to the seven digits inked into their flesh. They were allowed farther into certain realms of education and information than those not deemed worthy of possession - doors were open to them that were locked to others - but not without that final, damning price. However, they couldn’t use them for fear of being traced.

The rest of the country had to make do with what was deemed safe – in other words, undamaging to the established order - for their perusal.

Fortunately for all of them, John was a practiced liar; Dean wasn’t so bad himself, but they both warned Sam to keep his mouth shut since guilt was written all over his face, even before he left the motel room. With a glib smile and charm oozing from every pore, John and his two seminary students went to the library to do some research on what might be happening to the children in this town.

It was slow going, with John left to hunt and peck when typing and the boys untrained in what to look for. A couple of hours later, John asked quietly, “Now what did you two find over there?”

“Priests get all the good porn,” Dean stated, snickering at Sam’s stricken expression before clicking off whatever he’d been looking at. “Not much ‘sides what you already knew. It’s happened before, though – every 50-70 years kids go missing. Most of the recent papers seem to focus on the new freeway cuttin’ through that’ll kill this town dead.”

Sam leaned over closer to Dean’s computer, his lips moving slightly as he scanned the screen, impatient with Dean’s summary. “Construction’s caused the wildlife to start relocating – lots of reports of bears and mountain lions and deer in town.”

John toggled his screen, skimming a geologist’s report from the construction site. “Been finding a whole system of caves down there…” John began, when Sam interrupted.

“I’ll bet they found snakes, too.”

“Why’s that, Indiana?” Dean asked curiously, his interest peaked.

“The name of the town, dumb-ass,” Sam explained, before blushing at his inadvertent use of profanity in front of John. “This whole area was settled by Germans in the early 1800s; name of the town translates to Snake House.”

“They did find large amounts of shed snakeskin in the caverns,” John agreed, his fingers automatically attempting to tap on the table as he thought. He frowned down as his hand, pointedly stilling his anxious digits before the boys realized they weren’t responding as well as they should. “They called in some herpetologists to find out if the crew was in danger, and they said that snakes haven’t been common in this region – almost as if a larger predator had run them out.”

Dean shrugged carelessly, resting his elbow on his knee as he leaned forward to listen. “So what’s that mean? Whatever scared off the snakes is eatin’ the kids?”

A trio of small children halted in front of the row of computers, staring at Dean with wide eyes when they heard that they were going to be eaten. What could only be their mother came up behind them, hustling them towards the children’s area where one of the librarians was setting up for Story Time, the little boy squawking indignantly, “A snake’s gonna _eat_ me?!”

Sam pressed his lips together into a thin line of amused disapproval before tapping quickly at the keys, using all the information they had for a search. He paused, furrowing his brow at the computer in obvious confusion at what turned up before tilting the screen in John’s direction. “This thing? They’re real?”

“Demons hold half the seats in Congress and you don’t believe things like this exist?” John asked in disbelief, momentarily distracted from the image. “Next you’ll be telling me there are no such things as werewolves.”

“Not outside of Vegas,” Dean retorted idly. Dean’s grin widened and he shifted in his seat like an overexcited child. “Did you ever see Siegfried and Roy’s show? The weres leap through this flaming hoop…it’s awesome! Best damn show I’ve ever seen.”

John blinked slowly as this information sank in before focusing on the image on Sam’s screen. His eyes followed the woman’s bare curves and traced the swell of her hip where the pale skin grew lightly scaled, deepening to an emerald green as her body curled into a sinuous serpent’s tail. “A lamia…makes sense. They feed on children to stay young.”

Dean, sidetracked for a moment by the amber-eyed librarian heading by to read to the children, tossed a seductive grin in her direction, adjusting himself in his seat to follow her lithe form as she sashayed her way across the room with an artful toss of her blonde hair over her shoulder. “So what are we supposed to do about it?” Dean asked distractedly, arguing just for form’s sake, at this point. “We’re just supposed to believe you about this?”

“No,” John agreed, shaking his head slightly. “Just stay outta my way.” 

                                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The likelihood of John going anywhere without the boys glued to his side proved nonexistent. Sam downright refused to allow John out on his own. He tried to couch his concern in terms of back-up and needing to stay together for protection, but Sam’s inability to prevaricate didn’t fool anyone. With Sam’s eyes glued to John’s hands as he stuttered through his reasoning for going on a hunt with minimal training and no previous experience, it was evident Sam knew enough of John’s limitations that the idea of sending John out on his own after something so potentially lethal didn’t sit well with Sam.

Dean would have let John get eaten and not given John a passing thought as he ordered breakfast the next morning – except, perhaps, to hope the lamia didn’t get indigestion from eating such a disagreeable old bastard - but Sam was a different animal altogether. However, even Dean wasn’t able to turn his back on kids who needed his help, perhaps remembering the time when there had been no one to help him and he’d been left to a future molded by a man named Deidrich.

If _Sam_ were going, then _Dean_ was most certainly going. Despite the tentative, unspoken truce that John had managed to forge with Dean during their days at the cabin, Dean’s need to protect Sam from everyone - including himself - came before anything else. Therefore, John had Dean on his side as long as Sam was there.

Good to know where everyone’s priorities lay.

They had no idea where to begin looking. Spelunking through miles of caves was deemed an unwise option, tracks from the last victim’s house were eroded by now, and a convenient arrow pointing them in the right direction didn’t appear.

They were screwed.

“Lamias are nocturnal,” John explained through a mouthful of meatloaf. “Our best bet is to track her at night.”

“Track her from _where_?” Dean pointed out, waving his fork in an erratic circle and splashing Sam with drops of gravy. “This may be a small town, but we can’t be everyplace at once.”

Sam absently licked at the back of his hand, momentarily catching Dean’s attention as he swept his tongue over his knuckles. “We could take shifts,” Sam suggested with a helpful smile, gravy smeared over his chin. Dean chuckled, leaning over to wipe off Sam’s face with a sweep of his thumb, fingers lingering for a second too long.

“What else would we need to know about this thing?” Dean asked, Sam’s suggestion suddenly making him realize what they were about to get into.

“Lamias stay young by eating children – some stories say they only need to drink their blood, others say they eat their flesh. Either way, the kids don’t survive it. They can feed off men, but it doesn’t aid their longevity any – more like a snack.” John stabbed angrily at a piece of steamed broccoli on his plate. “They can hibernate for long periods of time. Lore says they could be distantly related to sirens, which might explain how it lures the children out of their homes.”

“What? So it sings a song and the kid just walks out to be eaten?”

John nodded, still absently mutilating his vegetables. “Most important thing is that it can be killed – it may be able to live forever, but it isn’t indestructible.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth quirked upwards in the semblance of a smirk, but his eyes were flat with malice. “That _is_ good news.” 

                                                     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Without a plan to guide them, the three men sat in the booth for another hour, moving food around their plates to look busy. John was just…tired. This felt like his early days of hunting when he had no back-up to rely on because his sons were too young to take with him. These two men might be older, but they had no idea what they were doing so that left it all up to him.

“All right, boys. Let’s go back to the motel. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

With a curt nod from Dean and a helpless shrug from Sam, they slid out of the booth and made their way to the door. John led the way through the narrow spaces between tables and Sam followed like a shadow, leaving Dean to trail behind, unobtrusively scanning the room looking for possible threats. 

With his eyes glued to the potentially threatening derriere of a waitress as she leaned over an empty table for her tip, Dean body-slammed someone as he turned the corner towards the door.

With a soft squeak, the woman from the library – the librarian, Dean recalled, with the tight black skirt – stumbled backwards, Dean’s hand snapping out to grip her arm before she fell.

“Pardon me, miss!” Dean murmured politely, absently running his thumb over the curve of her arm before releasing his hold. “I didn’t see you.”

“I can see why,” the woman drawled with a seductive sibilance, her amber eyes scaling up his body with an almost palpable weight before flicking over to the waitress. “She’s very striking.” The tip of her tongue flicked out to wet her upper lip, oddly captivating Dean and keeping his eyes glued to her face.

“Dean!” came Sam’s sharp voice from the doorway, his tone indicating he wasn’t pleased with what he saw.

Dean flushed slightly, feeling like he’d just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The woman leaned forward, giving Dean a glimpse of the swell of her breasts under the tight silk sheen of her blouse, whispering in his ear, “Stop by the library again sometime soon. Ask for Selma Murray. We can have lunch.” She gracefully walked through the door, entrancing Dean with the gliding sway of her hips as Sam reached in to yank Dean out by the arm, a frown marring the smooth skin of Sam’s forehead.

The ride back to the motel was silent, except for a few snickers disguised as coughs coming from John lounging in the backseat. 

                                                     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A gasping moan woke John in the middle of the night. In the haze of the newly awakened, John mumbled something incomprehensible, rolling over onto his side as he clutched the pillow to his cheek, burrowing his face into the warm indentation left by his head.

A cut-off breath pulled him further into full wakefulness, and John was ready to throw a pillow at the nearby bed to remind his eldest son that is was definitely _not_ OK to masturbate while his father was in the room. How many times did he have to tell Dean….

John’s eyes popped open, suddenly recalling where he was. The urge to toss something to quiet the noises was still his primary reaction, his muscles flexed and ready to throw before he realized that these weren’t his children so maybe it wasn’t his business. John loosely clenched the extra pillow in his hand, debating the merits of letting it fly or burying his head beneath it and thinking of England.

“Sam?” Dean’s groggy voice tripped clumsily into the silence, and John could barely make out Dean’s head rising from his pillow. He leaned over Sam, resting heavily on one elbow. “You OK, Sam?” Dean asked with a sharper edge to his tone.

Sam’s back arched off the bed, his eyes flicking wildly back and forth beneath his lids, his limbs thrashing violently. John sat upright, the sheets pooling around his waist as he tried to swing his legs free. “Is he having a seizure?”

Dean wrapped himself around Sam like a koala, whispering soothingly in his ear as he tried to keep him from rolling off the bed. “No,” Dean explained, breaking off his litany of praise and promises that he sealed with warm breath against Sam’s skin. “He’s having a dream. Go back to sleep, Father. He doesn’t like people to see him like this.” Dean tucked his head under Sam’s chin, rolling with his writhing form as Sam struck out, Dean’s steady murmurs unceasing as he tried to soothe Sam back into sleep.

“A dream?” John demanded. “Or a vision?”

Dean glared at him over the broad expanse of Sam’s chest, admitting through clenched teeth, “If he wants us to know, he’ll tell us when he wakes up.”

Sam began to sing haltingly in his sleep between gasps, stuttering out a lullaby that John had never heard. “Come by the hills to the land where life is a song, and sing while the birds fill the air with their joy all day long….” His body stilled as he sang, and Dean released his death-grip on Sam’s torso, instead brushing his palm in soothing circles over Sam’s chest, shushing him softly.

John sat helplessly on the side of his bed, watching Dean caring for Sam as his own son had cared for his little brother. John’s eyes slid closed as shame swept through him, followed by an overwhelming surge of need to see his children.

Sam’s shaky voice tore John from his reverie.

“She has eyes like old honey,” Sam began, confusion still making the words stumble off his tongue. He turned his bewildered gaze to Dean looming so protectively over him, adding softly, “She’s so _hungry_ , Dean.” Sam shivered, exhaustion pulling at him, “But her song is so….” He seemed to lose his train of thought, snuggling into Dean’s warmth as he begged, “Sing it to me, Dean. She stopped singing because her mouth is too full to hold the words….”

John’s head snapped up, his eyes catching Dean’s. “Wake him. _Now_. She’s hunting.”

“I know who it is,” Dean admitted, gently slapping Sam’s cheek to pull him towards consciousness. John quirked an eyebrow and Dean admitted sadly, “Eyes like old honey.”   



	5. Chapter 5

After a quick flip through the phonebook, they found themselves at the librarian’s house about fifteen minutes later. John divvied up what weapons they had, keeping a shotgun for himself and passing handguns to Dean and Sam. With hesitation, John hefted their largest hunting knife towards Dean, telling him crisply, “Strap it to your belt. We may need it.”

Dean nodded, taking the blade as he covertly studied John in the dim light of the moon.

“How’d you know it was her?” John finally asked.

Dean’s gaze flicked to Sam and he looked almost ashamed before admitting quietly, his gruff tone low so Sam couldn’t hear. “She’s the only thing that’s made me forget about Sam. When she was talking…I _wanted_ to go with her. If Sam hadn’t said something, I might have.”

John nodded in understanding, making sure they had extra ammo stored in their pockets before motioning Sam closer and they huddled together as he told them the plan. “She probably brings them here to feed because the caverns are too far away. I’m guessing she’ll have a burrow or a nest somewhere low.” The boys nodded in agreement, since it seemed to make sense.

“Do either of you know how to pick locks… _quietly_?” John asked, recalling Dean’s preferred method at the cabins of just breaking the nearest window and unlocking the door from the inside. Dean smiled and nodded, while Sam managed to look surprised as he shook his head. John grumbled under his breath, his hands unable to manage the delicacy of picking a lock which meant that they had to go in together rather than split up.

“OK, this means we have to stick together. We’ll go in the back door – Dean, you manage the locks. Sam, cover his back.”

John threw an apologetic glance at Dean before adding, “Dean will do a quick upstairs check to make sure we’re not breaking into an innocent woman’s house and waking her up. I’ll take point - we’ll sweep the first floor and check the basement. If nothing’s inside, we’ll scour the surrounding area. Got it?”

The two men nodded curtly, their hands tightening nervously around their weapons. John jerked his head to the right and Sam and Dean followed silently behind him as they melted into the shadows surrounding the house to circle into position. 

                                                  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I thought you said you knew how to pick locks,” Sam whispered loudly.

“I do,” Dean insisted, trying to wriggle his switchblade more forcefully past the doorframe. “Just not _well_.”

“You know,” John hissed, barely managing to keep a lid on his growing annoyance, “I could just call 911 so the neighbors don’t have to get out of bed to do it themselves.”

“You ever think of quittin’ the priest gig and becomin’ a comedian?” Dean grunted sarcastically as the door swung open. “You might make enough not to starve.”

John pressed his lips together, swiping his hand over his throat to cut the noise. Sam furrowed his brow in confusion before realization dawned. “Oh! Be quiet, Dean.” Sam then firmly pressed his mouth closed, looking very resolute. John barely refrained from rolling his eyes, instead leading the boys quietly into the dark interior of the house and motioning Dean upstairs with a sweep of his hand.

Dean returned several minutes later with an abrupt shake of his head. John motioned between Sam and Dean and then gestured to the right, indicating where they should search, and then indicated his area with a tilt of the head. The boys nodded when John held up three fingers, indicating they meet back here in three minutes or less. With an impertinent grin, Dean held up his finger in return – specially selected just for John – before grabbing Sam by the arm and leading him silently down the hallway as John went to inspect the kitchen with a subdued chuckle.

The first floor was clear, which left the basement.

“How did I know it was gonna be the basement?” Dean grumbled. “I hate basements. It probably smells like feet.”

John just shook his head, quietly leading them down the stairwell he’d found in the kitchen, the cool dampness of the basement sending a shudder down his spine. It was deathly still, without even what would have been the welcome sound of rats scrabbling over the concrete. This had to be it.

John sent Sam and Dean off to the left while he toured to the right, scanning the shadowed expanse of the room with the tiny beam of his flashlight. After only a few moments, Sam’s voice came sharply from farther into the room. “Father Winchester! Over here!”

John found the boys on either side of a large hole dug through the concrete wall, disappearing around a curve as it burrowed its way further under the soil. Sam was kneeling at Deans’ feet, gently cupping a small slipper as his mouth drew downwards.

“S’ok, Sam,” Dean murmured comfortingly, stroking Sam’s hair. “Everything’ll be OK.” Sam leaned heavily against the side of Dean’s leg, offering up to John the breadcrumb they’d found with eyes wide and pleading.

A sickly grimace tugged at the corner of John’s mouth as he took the slipper from Sam’s hand and tucked it into his jacket pocket to remove it from Sam’s sight. “Let’s go,” John ordered crisply. “We don’t have long.” 

                                            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It seemed like they jogged down that winding coil of tunnel for miles, but took less than fifteen minutes. Fortunately, the tunnel had been wired for electricity, long looping wires pinned to the ceiling between fluttering bulbs threatening to burn out with every passing moment. Nothing like having a well-lit cavalry coming to the rescue – didn’t want the enemy to be under-prepared or anything.

The tunnel was not built for men over six feet tall. The dangling bulbs brushed along John and Dean’s scalps as they made their way through, making the light swing wildly in the confined space. Shadows danced along the walls, blooming and shrinking as they teased the eye with the suggestion of movement, causing a shiver of apprehension to prickle along John’s skin. 

Sam ducked and wove, barely avoiding the swaying bulbs even as he hunched his shoulders forward, curling in on his torso to make his lengthy body more compact; more than a few bulbs slapped him in the forehead, making him sputter muffled curses under his breath as the hot glass singed his skin.

“A _You Are Here_ map might have been helpful, you know,” Dean mentioned sarcastically. “She went to the trouble to light our way and made our accommodations so comfortable, I really want to find her and thank her.” A startled bark of laughter erupted from Sam, who hunched down even further in embarrassment when John turned to frown at them both.

The tunnel began to broaden meagerly, tiny increments of increased space allowing Sam to stand up a little straighter and the men to walk two abreast rather than single file. John held a finger to his lips, motioning for silence as they tip-toed closer, making the final turn into a broad, carved out hollow under the earth.

The floor beneath their feet crackled and popped, and Sam paused, holding the beam of the flashlight down at their feet to see what was making so much noise. Beneath their boots lay a fine scattering of bones, small and delicate in construction, strewn like loose twigs across the earthen floor. Sam suddenly looked as if he might be sick, his face paling to a waxy, ashen color as Dean gripped him firmly by the arm.

Across the way lay a picturesque tableau – a young woman with curls of dark blonde hair cradling a child against her breast, humming a soft lullaby. She rocked evenly back and forth, the child napping quietly in its nightgown as the woman sang it into slumber, her face curled into the child’s dark ringlets as if pressing a kiss to the girl’s temple.

A curl of doubt tickled at Deans’ brain, slightly fogged from the melodic undertone humming through the cavern, and he was about to suggest they leave when the oddity of the scenario began to sink in for them all. The child hung too limply to be merely sleeping, and the woman holding her so lovingly to her chest was bare, except for bright beads of blood dribbling down her ivory pale skin and her amber eyes focusing on the intruders with a dangerous intensity.

With a sudden swell of muscle, she dropped the child’s body to the side, flicking her serpent’s tail around to slash at Sam’s upturned weapon as she hissed angrily at the men, her full lips bright with spilled blood. She then turned on Dean, lunging forward in a surge of coils, her lower body elongating to its full-scaled brilliance as the light in the cavern glimmered off the pearlescent emerald sheen of her skin.

Dean had dreams like this, wrestling with half-naked women. True, there were usually body oils or selected edibles involved, but it was something he had always imagined would be a highlight of his existence; turns out, it wasn’t as much fun as he thought.

The bitch was strong – naked, yes, but _strong_. She wound around him, the disquieting sensation of her breasts rubbing against his back not quite making up for the uncomfortable tightening around his lower body as she clenched her sinuous curves around his legs, trying to crush him with a flex of her muscles.

John came up behind her, unable to fire with Dean so close; instead, he violently slammed her in the temple with the butt of his shotgun, her head snapping back on her spine as Dean clawed his way out of her momentarily loosening coils.

Once Dean fell safely to the floor, Sam fired from his location, having scrounged up Dean’s lost weapon as he was searching for his own. The shot went wide, sending out a puff of dust from the carved earthen walls. John flipped his shotgun back into position and fired at the lamia’s exposed chest, her silken skin erupting in a spray of red matter as the shell tore open her torso.

“Keep shooting!” John ordered as he emptied his last round into her body, her tail still twitching wildly, sweeping across the floor as if searching for something to grab onto. Sam aimed more steadily, hesitating for only a moment before Dean stood beside him and started emptying his weapon into the lamia’s thrashing form; Sam’s reluctance evaporated with Dean beside him, and he joined Dean with several shots of his own before the lamia finally stilled, her serpent’s coils going limp as the life she’d stolen drained out of her across the earthen floor.

Sam and Dean stood there, panting softly as they stared down at the spreading stain creeping near their boots. John walked up silently behind them, giving them a moment to take it all in before they had to continue on with business. A slight sound, like loose gravel shaking free from the wall came from somewhere behind them, making Dean ask hesitantly, “These things…they don’t hunt in packs, do they?”

“Solitary hunters,” John explained, turning on his heel while reaching into his pockets for more ammo.

The rattling sound came more loudly, echoing off the walls in the small chamber as the men glanced to the shadows trying to find what was causing the noise. The lamia’s last meal twitched oddly, the small body of the child contorting in sharp spasms as the men watched in horror.

John stared at the creature trying to writhe its way across the floor, his heart sinking when he realized what this meant. It hadn’t fully transformed, yet, its legs bound together with a nearly translucent sheath of skin as if its lower body were wrapped in plastic; the alteration seemed to be progressing rapidly from the limp child they’d seen in the lamia’s grasp just a few minutes ago. The rattle at the end of her developing tail set up a steady warning rhythm, whirring melodically as her newly strengthening muscles tried to right her body into something like a kneeling position.

“Baby lamias have rattles?” Dean asked incredulously. “That’s just….”

“Ironic?” Sam replied dubiously.

“No…cute.”

John grimaced as he raised the shotgun, taking the time to aim carefully so that more than one shot wouldn’t be necessary. Dean shoved him aside just as he pulled the trigger, the wild shot sending a chunk of dirt flying at the base of the girl’s coils. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? She’s a _kid_!”

John elbowed him back sharply, sending Dean tumbling to the floor with the strength of his push. Sam lurched forward and John glared at him warningly, causing Sam to curb his instinctive reaction to take him down when he saw the look in John’s eyes.

“She wasn’t quite dead when the lamia stopped feeding, so she’s turning. She’s going to be exactly like that thing we just shot.” John closed his eyes for a second, feeling sick, but knowing it was the right thing to do. “The rattle is filled with the bones she’s shedding; she doesn’t need all she’s got anymore. She’s no longer human; if we don’t kill her, she’ll just keep killing kids until someone else stops her.”

Sam helped Dean to his feet, rubbing his hand soothingly along the length of Dean’s arm as his muscles tensed in readiness to take a leap at John. “He’s right, Dean,” Sam admitted softly. “We can’t just leave her here like this.” Sam’s voice stilled Dean in his tracks, making him slump against Sam’s larger body as if seeking solace from the harsh truth.

“Take him out of here, Sam,” John ordered gently, a twinge of guilt making his chest constrict for bringing these boys into this world…again. No matter where he went, he had to fuck things up. Sam nodded in acquiescence, leading a numb Dean down the tunnel.

John waited a few minutes, giving the boys time to put distance between them before reloading his shotgun and walking up to place his gun barrel against the girl’s forehead as she tried to crawl towards him, hissing awkwardly around her newly forming fangs. With a silent prayer to whatever God might be listening, John emptied both rounds into the girl’s skull, blood and brain matter spattering the wall behind her slumped form. 

                                                      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_“What the fuck are you up to, Johnny-boy?” the imp hissed with a startling show of fang. It used the blunt side of its tail to thwap John solidly on the side of his skull. “You tryin’ to block me out? Do you realize how much power I’ve had to expend to get here?” It stood upright, seething with barely restrained anger, its green scales growing mottled as its frustration flushed over its skin. “You used to be as discriminating as a $2 whore – your mind open and ready for **anyone** to play with.”_

_“Things have changed,” John replied coldly, grinding his teeth in frustration. He clenched his fists with pleasure, feeling the tight pull of skin over his knuckles, delighting in their maneuverability in this living dream. John cast as assessing eye on the creature before him, estimating the distance between his hand and its throat – wondering how tightly he’d have to squeeze before its head popped clean off._

 _Its eyes suddenly narrowed, growing more calculating, the red light dimming to a pale orange glow. “Are you tryin’ to get greedy, John?” It stalked closer, looking almost appreciative. “Holdin’ out for **more** than we’ve already promised?” The green demon sat back on its haunches, its hissing little laugh making the skin on the back of John’s neck prickle in disgust. “Didn’t think you had the guts.”  
_   
_It slashed its razor sharp talons across his belly, and John found his innards coiling around his hands – his strong and capable hands, hands that could once more hold a weapon or throw a punch, hands that could rend and tear and fight – rendered useless as he tried to keep his entrails from spilling out and tangling around his feet._

_“Guess I was wrong,” the demon said, something akin to pleasure making its reptilian features thin out as its scaled skin stretched tightly over its sharp-edged cheekbones. “You made a deal, Johnny,” the imp reminded him with an almost pleasant grin. “You already belong to us - don’t fight it. Just give us…what…we… **want**.”_

 _“Go to Hell,” John spat, blood leaking from the corners of his mouth. “I’ll see you there.”  
_  
John awoke with a panicked gasp, his belly cramping as his hands flexed stiffly. They weren’t giving up – he’d blocked them as best he could, but the threats were becoming more insistent.

John smiled in grim satisfaction, ignoring the burning ache that still lashed across his stomach as he eased back against the seat. So they couldn’t track them as well as he’d thought. They were still safe, for now. He glanced at the back of the boys’ heads, Dean staring resolutely forward as he focused on the road, Sam’s lolling against the window pane as he snored softly.

They’d be at the Roadhouse within the next few days. John knew _his_ Ellen well enough to know she’d help; without him having been involved in Bill’s death here, she’d be far more inclined to put up with him. He needed information, to know the lay of the land, what to look out for – not to mention ammunition and forged traveling papers for Sam and Dean, if she were able to manage that. John couldn’t be sure that Father John Winchester hadn’t given the names of the boys’ forged IDs over to the demons before John took over; it’s what John would have done if he were a turncoat. He planned to suss things out when they got to the Roadhouse.

It had to be better than being alone.

John sighed softly, closing his eyes as he tried to imagine what his children might be doing back home. They’d have cremated him by now, scattered his ashes to the four winds. He still held onto the hope that they might someday understand.

Buried where truth refused to hide behind pretty wishes, John knew they probably never would. 

                                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean hadn’t spoken to him since the lamia incident a day’s drive behind them. John accepted it with due grace; after all, he had raised his boys in this way of life, whereas these men had fallen into it out of pure desperation. What they’d seen hadn’t exactly been an encouraging welcome to the ranks of hunters.

With Sam sprawled along the front seat as he slumbered away the night’s drive, John felt even more alone in the depths of the car, hidden away in the backseat like a useless piece of luggage. John almost preferred Sam’s endless prattling about what they’d do in Canada, historical landmarks they were anywhere within 100 miles of, or his esoteric ramblings on the nature of man and machine. It occupied the heavy silence that forced thoughts of his children out into the center stage of his brain, spotlighting the recriminations and guilt that clung thickly to almost every memory John had.

Even that last memory that John treasured above all others – both of his sons alive and relatively healthy as Dean sat upright in his hospital bed, whole once again after so many nightmarish days without hope – was covered in dark sepia tones of shame and regret, but highlighted with an almost inexplicable splash of relief at finally finding a blameless way to escape the tangled snare that had become his existence.

John cringed at the burgeoning realization that maybe he was a coward after all – too afraid to face the failure of his mission, too afraid to admit to failing his sons.

Dean’s voice carried lightly over the rumbling purr of the engine, startling John out of his darkening reverie. “So that’s what you do?”

John nodded, slowly realizing that Dean couldn’t see the small movement shadowed in the darkness of the backseat. John roughly cleared his throat and rasped, “Yeah, pretty much.”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t envy you, man.” He glanced over at Sam sleeping quietly in an awkwardly curved ball on the seat beside him, a small flicker of amusement flashing over his features before they steadied into something more somber. “Sam thinks you’re a hero, you know. First you dedicate your life to God and then you go in with guns blazing to try to save a kid. You’re becoming tough competition.”

“You went in, too,” John reminded him.

“Yeah, but I’m not sure I could stomach it on a regular basis.”

“I’ll bet you could…and you’d be good at it,” John said with a pained smile.

Dean shook his head. “It’s a crap job. You gotta make some tough choices.”

“I just do what needs to be done,” John stated firmly, his tone brooking no argument.

“I’m countin’ on it,” Dean muttered under his breath, so low that John barely heard his muted exhalation. Dean’s eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror, glowing oddly in the headlights reflecting off the silvered surface, seeking John’s empty gaze and latching onto it like it was a lifeline. The steadiness of his expression made John sit taller in his seat, instinctively understanding that what was about to spill into the dark sanctuary of the car must be given its due respect. “If we don’t make it….” Dean began.

“You’ll make it,” John countered reflexively. “I’ll see to it.”

Dean ignored him as if he hadn’t spoken. “If we don’t make it to the border…if we’re captured, I want you to put us down.”

John blinked in muted surprise, his brain unable to register what was being asked.

“Before or after possession, it doesn’t matter. Before’s probably better; we’re less likely to fight back – go down easy.”

“No,” John whispered in horror. His tongue felt thick in his mouth and a sudden rush of dizziness made his stomach lurch sickeningly. This reminded him far too much of the last thing he had asked of Dean – not so much _asked_ as _ordered_ \- the unwanted chore that John himself had been unable to comprehend fulfilling.

Dean continued on into the silence weighing heavily in the confined space of the vehicle as if he hadn’t heard John’s reply. “Sam’s too afraid to ask you. Doesn’t think you’ll do it. I know you will, that you _can_ …now.” His gaze hardened as his eyes swept back to the endless road ahead. “You do what needs to be done.”

Dean’s hands tightened on the wheel and his eyes sank down to the slumbering figure of Sam, who had somehow managed to nestle in close to Dean’s thigh as he spread himself across the broad bench seat. Dean’s voice cut softly through the darkness, the pleading tone making John’s belly do another roll of revulsion. “Don’t say no, Father. _Please_.”

John’s eyes slid closed and he shuddered, his teeth snapping together with the force of his tremors. Holding his eyes closed so he wouldn’t have to see that expression in the eyes of someone who reminded him so much of his son, John emitted a resigned sigh, muttering with the last of his breath, “I will.”   



	6. Chapter 6

Somewhere near the edge of Nebraska, Dean’s strident voice woke John. “Calm down, Sam! It’s just a checkpoint.”

“They’ll catch us, Dean!” Sam said with an edge of growing hysteria to his tone. “We’ve got to _run_. Let’s just leave the car here and run before they see us!” Sam’s hand was already on the handle, and John felt the breeze of the open door before Dean’s hand snapped over and grabbed Sam by the collar, yanking Sam backwards away from the lure of the asphalt sliding smoothly under the tires. The gust of cool air cut off, a soft click suggesting that the door had swung closed, leaving John still silently cocooned in the heavy warmth of the backseat.

“Sam! Look at me!” Dean snapped, his tone more an order than a request. When Sam didn’t respond, blankly focused on writhing out of Dean’s grasp, Dean shook him sharply by the collar.

“ _Sam_!” The large man stilled, panting softly, gulping nervously between breaths. “Don’t panic. This is why we’ve been cartin’ Father John’s ass across the country. Let him earn his keep.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed automatically, his head jerking in a stiff nod. “Father John will get us through. It’s safe. We’re…safe.”

Dean’s grip gentled on the nape of Sam’s neck, his hand softly stroking through the hair draped over his fingers. “S’ok, Sam. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

John kept quiet, waiting until Sam’s breath had evened out before struggling to right himself from his cramped position along the seat. He rolled his neck to work out the kinks, rubbing a hand over his shoulder when it cringed in complaint. Through a yawn John mumbled, “I’m up to bat, I take it?” 

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, his hand falling reluctantly from Sam’s nape. “Time to suit up, Padre.” 

                                                      ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Impala edged forward through what seemed the endless line of state police vehicles intermixed with a local unit that were evenly dispersed along the roadside. Spotlights illuminated the stretch of blacktop for a hundred yards in either direction, giving the lonely expanse of road the feeling of a football field prepared for its next night game. Police officers clothed in the warm beige of the sheriff’s department and the darker black of the locals leaned idly against cars while drinking steaming cups of coffee, or stood at attention on the edge of the pavement, glaring meaningfully at the line of automobiles with one hand on their gun belts.

The road ahead was nearly blocked with sawhorses and more police cars parked at an angle across the pavement, leaving only the tiniest opening large enough for one car to pass through at a time. Some of the officers held leashes wrapped tightly in their fists, restraining large black dogs that reached to their hips and glared hungrily at the people trapped inside the vehicles like they were the creatures’ next canned meal. The dogs’ eyes glowed like brake lights from the darkness of their fur, the quick blinking of their lids abruptly cutting off the eerie red luminosity like some sort of Morse Code; John watched the gleaming ruby gazes of the beasts hidden on the edge of sight seeming to flicker on and off, ceaselessly aimed at the cars rolling by.

“Hellhounds,” John whispered in disbelief, the sound almost catching in his throat. Sam shuddered when he caught sight of the beasts, edging a little further away from his window.

A police officer held up his hand and Dean slowed the car, rolling to a stop next to the barricade, unable to see more than the man’s silhouette with the bright lights nearly blinding him. A large circle of light swept over the side window, swooping downward as an indication to roll it open. Dean complied, rolling the window down and leaning his arm out into the cool air, smiling up at the policeman with a gleaming show of teeth.

“Howdy, Officer. What do you need?”

“I’ll need to see your papers or your ID number,” the officer began when John quietly leaned forward into the circle of light aimed in Dean’s face. John had schooled his features into his most blandly serious expression, the stark white of his cleric’s collar almost glowing in the dimness of the car’s interior.

“Is there a problem, young man?” John intoned, a current of innocent confusion rolling easily off his tongue.

“No, Father,” the policeman replied, visibly relaxing at the familiar sight of the white collar. “Just your standard checkpoint. Do you have your travel papers, sir?”

“Here you go,” John said with a smooth smile, handing a small leather passport emblazoned with a large gold cross on the cover through the open window. As the officer took the sheaf of papers from his hand, John tilted his head slightly, his fingers barely brushing through a silent blessing, making the police officer smile in polite acknowledgement of the benediction.

John’s eyes flicked over to Sam, who was sitting stiffly in the passenger seat, a light sheen of sweat dotting his upper lip. John willed Sam to stay calm, too afraid to offer the comfort of a hand on Sam’s shoulder in case that startled the young man into a full-fledged panic.

“Who are these men with you, Father?” the officer asked, casting an assessing eye on Dean.

“Seminary students,” John explained evenly. “They’re in training at my parish and…” John grimaced, holding up his hands and purposefully straining the muscles in his wrists to make his hands cramp into claws. “With my rheumatism getting so bad lately, I need the extra help. Couldn’t drive myself anywhere without these boys!” John smiled beatifically at the backs of Dean and Sam’s heads, looking for all intents and purposes like a proud father.

“Your papers allow transport of up to five seminary students and classified religious articles across state lines. You’re in the clear. Let’s hope your boys get their own papers soon enough.” The officer leaned in a little, whispering, “Restrictions are getting tighter. They’ll need their own – the sooner the better.”

John’s eyes met the officer’s and he nodded in understanding. “Thank you.”

As the officer handed the passport back to John, a sharp series of barks and growls erupted on the right side of the car, echoing through the steel frame of the vehicle and making it shudder beneath them. Sam yelped, pressing himself against Dean’s side as a leashed hellhound made a lunge at the passenger side window, its spittle flecking the glass and leaving little curls of steam rising into the cool night air.

“Officer Harris!” the policeman shouted over the hood, his hand already on the butt of his pistol. “ _Control your animal!_ ”

“You know how it is, Pete!” came the other man’s tired reply, the muscles of his arms straining as he tried to tug the large black beast away from Sam’s window. “They go after almost everything!”

“Well, get that damn thing away from this car! There’s no contraband here!” The officer stood upright, shouting at the roadblock with a wide wave of his arm, “Let ‘em through!”

As Sam shivered against Dean’s arm, Dean’s hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that the veins stood out against the backs of his hands, the quartet of officers ahead of them slowly removed the sawhorses. Feeling Sam’s fingers digging into his flesh as his panic mounted, Dean whispered soothingly, “Close your eyes, Sam. We’re almost through.”

The Impala inched slowly forward through the police lined so casually on either side of the car, every hellhound they passed lowering its head and growling with a predatory display of teeth as their red eyes gleamed in undisguised warning. Only when the lights of the checkpoint faded into nothingness behind them did Sam release Dean’s arm, shrinking back against the seat with an expulsion of breath and wrapping his arms tightly over his belly, his body continuing to shake with slight tremors even as exhaustion dragged him down into unwelcome sleep.

“He saw it once,” Dean explained quietly, glancing over to make sure Sam was truly asleep. “A friend of his – Jessica – she tried to run. Waited too long, though. He was standing only a few feet away when the hellhounds tore into her. Like they came from nowhere, he said.” Dean shook his head in angry disbelief. “Burned her remains right there on the lawn in front of the Student Union. They made the whole building watch – said it was a warning, that the Chosen belonged to them and they could do with them as they pleased – actually called it a Gentlemen’s Agreement between gods that we humans were bound to uphold.”

Dean smacked the flat of his hand against the steering wheel, cringing when Sam stirred. He held his breath until Sam settled back down, angrily whispering at the windshield so softly that John had to lean forward to hear. “It’s all lies. Their God…” Dean’s eyes found John’s in the rearview mirror. “… _your_ God. All I believe in is Sam, and that’s what’s gonna get me through.”

John shrugged, an understanding smile softening his features. “Sometimes, that’s enough.”

“It’s more than enough,” Sam suddenly said, startling the other men as his eyes opened and his tone took on a harder edge. “I’m _tired_ of being afraid.” 

                                                    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I need a beer,” Dean stated later that night, after the heavy silence in the car became too overwhelming. “I _deserve_ a beer.”

John made a noise of disagreement from the backseat and Dean cut him off, stating more firmly. “We _all_ need a frickin’ beer. Got it, Papa John? You can bless it or somethin’, if that’ll make you feel any better about it.”

With the checkpoint several hours behind them, John had to concede Dean’s point. Sam still looked as strung out as a gutted cat and they needed a place where they could disappear in a crowd for a little while, just to soothe some rattled nerves. Harvelle’s was still too far away, and maybe this way, John could work his way into a card game and not feel guilty about earning some quick cash.

Dean pulled into the parking lot of the first dive they approached, the white clapboard building bright in the darkness, its neon sign flickering _The Blue Boar_ with the unsettling steadiness of a heartbeat.

Dean pulled a reluctant Sam from the car, his arm firm around Sam’s waist as he led him inside the bar, threading through the crowd to find a recently vacated back corner booth with John trailing behind.

With a curt order to stay put, Dean wandered off to buy some beverages and John finally understood that this wasn’t at all about what Dean wanted. Sam sat huddled in the corner of the booth, face still strangely blank after his determined statement several hours ago – and now that John thought about it, it was the last time he’d heard Sam say _anything_. He cast as assessing eye over the young man slouched in the seat across from him, noting the apparently casual drape of Sam’s arms over his belly with the white knuckled fingers biting into his ribs, nearly hidden under the overhang of his concealing elbows.

The loud clunk of beer glasses being set none too gently on the table startled John out of his reverie. Dean had less then smoothly placed the two glasses he had somehow managed to carry in one hand in front of John, extricating his fingers from John’s glass as the beer sloshed over the rim, spattering John’s cuff with the amber liquid.

John wrinkled his nose, studying the drink suspiciously as he lightly asked Sam, “When was the last time Dean washed his hands?”

Sam gave him a half grin and Dean glanced at John with a thankful expression, placing Sam’s glass down in front of him carefully with a benign, “Here you go, Sam. Drink up.”

Sam toyed with the bottom of the glass, twisting it between his hands as he made random patterns in the condensation with his long fingers. Dean slid into the booth beside him, his forehead wrinkled with concern as he kept his eyes covertly on the level of beer in Sam’s glass.

Feeling out of place, John took a long drink before edging his way out of the booth. “I’m gonna take a look around,” he told them. “Maybe find a game to get into, if I can. You two stay here.”

They ignored him, Sam still playing with his drink and Dean still silently observing Sam. John rolled his eyes and made his way out into the crowd.

The place was surprisingly busy. Just their luck that the first bar they came across was apparently the local hang out. After a cursory inspection of the room, within which he noticed no card games and only one pool table, covered with a swath of giggling twenty-something females, he gave up hope of earning any spending money. John even went so far as to inspect the dart board area, though with his hands in the condition they were, the fine art of dart throwing was out of his league. After a dart barely missed his head – there really should be a rule about the number of drinks a person could imbibe when he had sharp, pointy objects in his hands – John settled in at the bar, seating himself on a stool and leaning back against the broad countertop. He had to kill some time while Dean talked whatever it was out with Sam.

A young, curvy redhead pushed her way up to the bar beside him, casting him an appreciative smile before she called out to the bartender down the way, “Hey, Billy! Could I get a cosmo down here?”

The thin dark-skinned man nodded absently, coming over a minute later with the deep pink drink. “Here you go, pretty lady. Ease up on those things, you hear? Won’t do you much good if your liver goes out before spring.”

She laughed lightly, extending her arm over the bar. “Like it’ll hurt me? Charge it, Billy. Keep a tab running.” John watched as the man named Billy just shrugged, pulling out a small machine and scanning the digits on her forearm that were inked into her pale flesh.

John’s gaze swept from the tattoo and up the length of her arm until it reached her face, only to find her staring at him with a small grin.

“Hello, handsome,” she purred, swirling her drink absently. “Wanna buy me a drink?”

John arched an eyebrow and nodded at the glass in her hand. “Looks like you’ve already got one.”

She glanced down at her drink before downing it in one quick swallow, the motion baring her pale throat from chin to a generous amount of cleavage. She caught him looking when she set her empty drink back down on the bar, her grin widening into a suggestive smile.

“How ‘bout you and I go to my place and you leave me with something to remember come spring?” she said in a low voice, trailing her fingers up his arm.

“You might remember more if you drank a little less,” John chided with a smirk.

She pouted, slinking closer until his knee was pressed into the curve of her groin. “I’ve only got a few more months,” she said, holding up her arm to show him her tattoo before sliding the bare skin of her forearm over his unshaven cheek and tangling her hand in his hair. “Help me enjoy it, baby.”

“How about you let go of my hair, pretty lady?” John said soothingly, leaning back until the black strands of his hair slid from her loosening fingers.

The pout grew more pronounced, her plump lower lip sliding out even further. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” she asked coyly, jerking her head in the direction of the sign over the bar which stated in colorful chalk – _Chosen Night: Get Lucky with the Elite!_ She leaned in, her breath warm on his ear, “You could get _very_ lucky, handsome.” With that pronouncement, her tongue darted out to lick along his lobe and John nearly fell off his bar stool.

 _Oh, shit_ was John’s first thought, and he debated gathering up the boys and heading straight for the car. Then he relaxed, realizing that they weren’t on the prowl so were safe from being picked-up…he hoped.

The girl who was trying her best to climb into his lap could prove a useful source of information, John realized. He just needed to get a table in between her questing hands and his unprotected nether regions.

Women were not this forward in his day.

With that thought, John groaned, admitting reluctantly to himself that he had officially turned old.

“How ‘bout we talk a little first?” John suggested, allowing a small, heated smile to slide over his face. “I’m old-fashioned.” He wrapped his arm around her waist, hefting her easily beside him as he stood up to head over to a darkened booth.

She giggled a little drunkenly, grabbing another cosmo off the counter top as he guided her towards the booth. “Ooooh,” she slurred with wide-eyed appreciation as her hand made another foray into enemy territory. “A gentleman…that means ladies first, right?” she leered suggestively.

It took a second for John to get it and then he nearly blushed, a bit discomfited by this charade. “That’s my motto,” he agreed, briefly nuzzling at her temple as he guided her into her seat. “Maybe we could take a little trip North. What do you know about the roads up that way….” 

                                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, back at the table, Dean’s fingers edged over to Sam’s, clasping at one of his fidgeting hands. “Somethin’ up, Sammy?”

Sam shifted his hand away from Dean’s, missing the pained look that flashed over Dean’s face when Sam pulled away. Dean let his hand fall into his lap, asking again, “Is something _wrong_?”

Sam must have heard the change in tone because his head snapped up and he gazed steadily at Dean from beneath his bangs.

“I’m not like you, Dean,” Sam began. “All this….” Sam’s voice trailed off, as if unsure of what to say next. “It’s getting to be too much.”

“Like it’s not too much for the guy who grew up on the street?” Dean asked snidely. “Because I should be used to being hunted, thought of as meat, treated like shit, and fighting for my life on a daily basis?”

Sam looked surprised at what fell out of Dean’s mouth, his eyes widening in shock. “No, Dean. Not like that. You can take care of yourself. I’m pretty much useless.”

Dean softened a little, saying with a chuckle. “Not entirely.”

Sam groaned, rolling his eyes. “Is this gonna be another one of your witty height references? We’re inside so the weather question is currently moot, there aren’t any high shelves and there’s no sun to block for you.”

Dean laughed openly, patting Sam on the knee. “Exactly, Sammy.”

Sam shifted his knee away, saying mournfully, “All I want is to be normal…safe. Not have to keep looking over my shoulder. It’s what we both want.”

He glanced up to see Dean’s face set into blank lines. “What I want, I’m not gonna get,” Dean said evenly. “So…yeah…normal is good enough for me.”

Sam’s hand twitched as if he would reach out, but he curled it into a fist and sheltered it in his lap, shame adding a touch of color to his cheeks. “That’s not true, Dean.”

“Yeah, Sam, I think it is. You haven’t touched me, or let me touch you since the camp was raided.”

“We’ve been busy taking care of Father John!”

“I don’t think that’s it. This is about what happened - when we lost everyone.”

Sam’s face fell. “Dean…we weren’t there when the rest of them were taken because we were off…fooling around together.” Sam gulped nervously. “It’s _our_ fault. We should’ve been there, keeping an eye on things.”

“They did not get taken because we were kissing, Sam,” Dean stated bluntly. “Your hand on my dick had nothing to do with the demons coming.”

“How do you _know_ , Dean?” Sam demanded. “Maybe it’s what let them find us.”

“What you feel is not a sin, Sam. Being Chosen…” Dean voice grew hard as the realization grew, “…you think it’s some kind of _punishment_. You believe the party line.”

Sam’s face paled and his mouth fell open to protest, but Dean cut him off. “It’s OK, Sam. I knew this was comin’. You’ve made your choice and I can live with it. You’re still the best thing I’ve got.” Dean gave him a wan grin and joked, “Except maybe for the Impala.” He took a breath and added, “I’m gonna go get another drink.”

Dean slid out of his seat before Sam could say another word, huddling in the booth as he watched Dean lithely wind his way towards the bar. Sam absently chewed on his lower lip, his gaze going unfocused as he lost himself in thought, unsure of what to do.

At the bar, Dean took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second before trying to catch the attention of the bartender. Dean casually lifted his had to wave him over when he felt someone lightly grip his wrist and push his sleeve down to reveal his tattoo. Dean yanked his arm away, suggesting frostily over his shoulder, “It’s bad manners to grab people without asking first. Get lost.”

“How ‘bout I buy you a beer?” the man suggested with a sly grin.

“Got enough cash for my own, thanks,” Dean replied, still trying to get the bartender to this side of the counter.

“C’mon,” the man rumbled throatily, edging closer. “This is your last hurrah, isn’t it? I can take real good care of you until it’s time.”

Dean frowned at him over his shoulder, “You really can’t take a hint, can you?” Dean turned, resting his hand on the bar so he didn’t just take a swing, and continued, “Let me say this real slow so you can understand me. N-o. Do I need to do it in sign language, too? Here ya go.” Dean used his free hand to flip him the finger before trying to turn back to the bar.

The man laid his hand over Dean’s, brushing his thumb over the delicate skin of Dean’s wrist. “I like a little fight in my men,” he began, when a large hand fell atop his and squeezed, making the man whimper as the bones in his hands ground together uncomfortably.

Sam then splayed his hand on the man’s chest, pushing him away from Dean none-too-gently. “He said _no_ , asshole. Get out of here.”

A proud grin broke over Dean’s face, and he wrinkled his nose at the guy over Sam’s shoulder in triumphant glee. “That was awesome, Sa-…” he began, when Sam’s large hands came up to cup his face.

Before Dean could complete his thought, and even before his expression could fully change to _what-the-fuck?!_ , Sam’s mouth was on his and Dean forgot about everything.

Sam’s kiss was open and hungry, and he devoured Dean’s mouth with the sharp nip of teeth and tongue.

Several minutes later, when they needed time to breathe, Dean asked lightly, “Does this mean what I think it means, Sammy?”

With a knowing smile, Sam replied, “I said I was tired of being afraid, didn’t I?” He leaned in to capture Deans’ mouth once more, ignoring the attentive gazes of the bar patrons around them as he tightened his grip on Dean.   



	7. Chapter 7

Dean pulled up in front of the apparently occupied building, the only sign that it was inhabited a couple of cars parked haphazardly in the dirt lot. He cast a doubtful look at John before leaning over the steering wheel to study the paint chipped placard declaring it to be Harvelle’s Roadhouse, taking note of the yellowed OPEN sign planted crookedly in the pane of glass on the door.

“ _This_ is it?” Sam asked in disbelief, wrinkling his nose at the derelict exterior with the loose boards and the thick coating of dust that seemed to anchor everything from blowing away.

“It’s a _dump_ ,” Dean declared emphatically, leaning back against the seat.

“Spoiled brats,” John replied with a teasing grin. “It’s got drinks, food and a bathroom, and you’ll be thankful for that.”

Dean snorted a laugh, murmuring to Sam, “I’ll be thankful if there aren’t cockroaches as big as my head.”

“Or _rats_ ,” Sam replied, with another curl of his lip.

“ _Out_ , both of you,” John ordered, rolling his eyes as they reluctantly climbed out of the car. He didn’t know where this Sam and Dean had gotten it from, but they were definitely falling into the realm of overly indulged. John wasn’t sure he approved of this odd prissiness, despite how much it might amuse him – it reeked of weakness. Perhaps being amongst the Chosen had smoothed their rough edges, the opportunities and care made available leaving them softer and more malleable for future possession – something like pampered house pets for the demonic realms.

Or maybe John just didn’t know how to deal with those who had been brushed by privilege, even if it came tainted by what it demanded in return. These men had been inducted into a life he could never have dreamed of, everything they wanted open and available for their every whim – for the meager price of one used soul.

Not everyone could refuse such a bargain. Not everyone did.

After all, John had traded a worthless, used-up soul once. Every soul had its price – even his.

                                                                  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John led them into the stuffy interior of the roadhouse, the warmth a welcome relief to the cold bite of winter in the air outside. Despite the surprisingly empty room, he pointed Sam and Dean towards a corner booth, going to the bar to order a few warm drinks and to scope out the possibilities.

Ellen was busy stacking glasses at the end of the bar, the slope of her shoulders something so startlingly familiar that John held his breath for a moment, his entire body loosening with a sudden surge of…comfort.

He wasn’t alone here after all.

John made himself comfortable on a bar stool, leaning forward to rest his arms on the counter as Ellen turned, a growing smile already spreading over his face as he saw her memorable no-nonsense expression set firmly in place.

It was an expression that quickly melted into a momentary flash of disgust before being swept away by an almost overwhelming dismay. She was standing in front of him within two steps, moving so quickly that John barely had time to blink. “What the hell are you doin’ here, Father?” she hissed quietly. “Get the fuck out while you still can.”

“Did I do something wrong, Ellen?”

Ellen opened her mouth to reply, her eyes flicking over John’s shoulders as Dean started to stand when he noted the rise in tension between them. “Oh… _John_ ,” Ellen moaned brokenly, her face collapsing in defeat. “You stupid, _stupid_ man. Why did you bring ‘em here? Don’t you _know_?”

“Know what?”

“Hey, Mom,” came a perky voice from behind them, slicing through the undercurrent of distress that lay thickly over the bar.

Ellen’s face paled, her skin turning a strange ashen gray as she swallowed roughly, before replying with a forced lightheartedness. “Hey, Jo. What’re you doin’ up so early? Your shift doesn’t start ‘til 6:00.”

John smiled down into the upturned face of the girl he had known as a gangly adolescent back in his world, with a mouth full of braces and eyes far too big for her pixie-ish face. She’d certainly grown into her looks.

Jo cast John an appraising glance, her steady gaze traveling from the tips of his boots to his disheveled hair, lingering uncomfortably in places he’d rather not be her concern. “Friend of yours, Mom? Part of the _family_ business?”

John noted the odd stress she’d put on the phrasing and a prickle of unease shivered along his spine. 

Something was wrong.

John felt a looming presence behind him, and the reassuring bulk of the boys suddenly filled up the space, appeasing his innate need to have something solid at his back. “Is anything wrong…Father?” Sam asked hesitantly, his tone brusque with warning.

Jo’s eyes flickered with something indefinable, her face lighting up as her features took on a sharper edge. “Father…Winchester?”

John nodded slowly, too numb with the heavy sense of foreboding to do anything else.

Black seeped over her irises like a slickly spreading pool of oil as her mouth widened into a predatory grin. “We’ve been looking for you for _such_ a long time.”

                                                                           ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John stumbled off the stool, his hand resting unsteadily on the bar as he instinctively placed the other in front of the boys, holding his arm splayed out as if that alone could protect them from what was coming.

Jo walked forward with a seductive sway to her hips, a small smile making the corners of her mouth turn upwards. “And this must be Dean and Sam.” Her eyes traveled hungrily over them both, assessing them as if they were up for auction at a meat market, the next set of bulls for slaughter or stud.

“It’s too bad I already have a host; I could have done a lot with one of you two.”

Sam’s olive skin drained to a sallow, sickly hue. His hand crept to Dean’s arm, curling around the other man’s bicep as if seeking something solid to ground him. Dean subconsciously took a step backward, pressing himself against the curve of Sam’s chest as if bracing himself for a blow.

“They’re not yours,” John stated evenly, maintaining eye contact as he tried to retrieve his gun from the small of his back. His stiff fingers fumbled with the tiny grip of the revolver and he silently cursed his own clumsiness as Jo’s head fell back, a low laugh tinkling from her throat.

As Jo’s head swept forward, her blonde hair framing her face with an almost angelic innocence, her laugh deepened to something huskier, dripping with a hint of malice. “You stakin’ a claim, Father?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

Jo spilled another delighted little laugh, clapping her hands in almost girlish glee. “Oh, you’re not nearly as broken in as they say!” Her lilting speech suddenly darkened, the words heavy with implication. “This is gonna be _fun_.”

At that, she sprang forward as John finally pulled out the gun, his reflexes still too slow with fingers that refused to obey the speed demanded by his impulses. Jo landed on top of him, rearing back a tiny fist to slam John across the jaw as the gun skittered out of reach.

Dean kicked out, smashing into her shoulder with his boot, sending her flying off John with a slight skid across the floor. John struggled to right himself, readying for her next attack when he saw her roll to a stop on her belly. She gazed up at him, licking a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth as she drew her hands beneath her, readying to pounce.

With a sickening crunch of wood and bone splintering, a bar stool came crashing down on Jo’s skull, slamming her head violently into the floor. Sam stood over her, hefting the heavy weight of the stool in his grip with apparent ease as he brought it down like a hammer again and again, soft grunts escaping him as his wide eyes remained focused on the demon at his feet.

Only when the stool fell apart in his hands did Sam finally stop, his breathing erratic and his eyes nearly black from the rush of adrenaline. He dropped the wooden legs still gripped in his trembling hands, his cheeks flushed and spattered with a colorful spray of red freckles. Sam stared down at the few strands of blonde hair that were still visible through the darkening red mess that remained of Jo’s skull, stating in an odd mix of outraged confusion, “I _had_ to do it. There’s no way it’s coming back from that.”

A cloud of black, oily smoke began to seep from the remains, coalescing into a roiling ball of thick darkness over Jo’s body. It hung there for a second as if taking everything in before it spilled upwards in a sudden burst of speed and disappeared through the ceiling with an almost subsonic shriek of defiance.

Ellen pushed past him, dropping to her knees in the sticky pool of blood that was slowly seeping along the cracks in the floorboards. Her hands fluttered over Jo’s body as if she didn’t know where to put them. “They took her as payback…for Bill bein’ part of it all. Always planned on gettin’ her out, but then it was too late. They kept her here as a spy, keepin’ an eye on things.”

A single tear made its agonizing way down her cheek, following the deepening lines and crevices that seemed to have suddenly carved their way into her skin. She absently rubbed her fingers over a brand on Jo’s limp arm, tracing the scarred circle nearly bisected by the line angled through it. “She was my baby girl…I couldn’t hurt her.”

Ellen curled around what remained of her daughter, uncaring of the blood that was seeping into her clothes, making the fabric cling stickily to her skin. “Get out,” came her soft voice, barely discernible in the heavy silence.

John hesitated and started to kneel beside her, his hand hovering over her curved shoulders as he began awkwardly, “Ellen, I’m so sorr-….”

“Get _out_ ,” Ellen said again more strongly, her voice almost completely devoid of emotion. She turned towards him, her head still resting on Jo’s back as her hair slid over her exposed face, leaving thin red trails on her cheeks. “Don’t you understand? It’ll go right back to them now that it’s free. And it knows where you are.”

                                                                       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 _“What have you been up to, John Winchester?” came a familiar feminine voice that caressed the skin along the nape of his neck with the memory of silken lips brushing over the top of his spine._

 _John turned, blinking in surprise, his brain unable to make sense of what he was seeing. “Mary?” he whispered low in his throat, the word pouring out in a rough grumble of disbelief._

 _He stumbled towards her, reaching up a hesitant hand to trace the lines of her face, his fingers brushing over the ridge of her brow and along her jaw before his thumb swept over the fullness of her lower lip. “It’s **you** ,” he whispered again, joy suffusing his visage._

 _Confusion flitted over Mary’s features, the expression sliding smoothly into one of innocent seduction as she laid her palms flat on his chest, leaning just a little closer. His fingers moved from the gentle caress along her jaw to tangle in her long blonde hair as he cupped the back of her head in his large hand, pulling her towards him as he pressed his lips to hers._

 _John gave himself over to the sensation – his wife, his Mary, warm and alive and willing in his arms. Her hands slid over his ribcage, her blunt nails scraping along his suddenly bare skin as he pressed her back against the bed. He wrapped a hand in her glossy tresses, twining the golden strands through his fingers and clenching a large hank of it in his fist as if it were a tether keeping her bound._

 _He pushed away the frisson of unease that shivered along his spine as his fingers bent so easily to his will, instead focusing on the way the rest of Mary’s hair spilled like a halo across the silken sheets._

 _Overcome with need, John slipped inside her, his teeth grazing over the rapid fluttering of her pulse as he set a steady rhythm. His sweat slick skin slid against hers, and when he pulled away enough to gaze down lovingly at the face of his wife beneath him, her flesh glistened with a sparkling luster like a splash of stars across her skin._

 _Mary’s tongue darted out, teasing him with that quick flash of pink that swept along her lip. The movement enticed John to lean in for another taste as he kept his gaze locked to hers, warmth growing in his belly as he sank into the cool blue-green depths of her gaze._

 _…the cool blue-green depths that darkened to an inky blackness as if he’d fallen to the bottom of the ocean, his skin chilling with the sensation of being enfolded in that icy water where even the relentless pounding of the sun’s rays never dared to reach._

 _John’s breath caught in his throat as he tried to pull away, his horrified expression reflected clearly in the glassy, black sheen of Mary’s eyes. The demon’s legs tightened around him, keeping his body pressed firmly inside its own as it ground against him with a gleeful grin. “If we’d known you’d respond to a female liaison so well, we’d have done this years earlier, Father. You never seemed interested.”_

 _John’s body betrayed him, his orgasm ripping through him as he spilled inside the creature’s depths, his body hitching against the demon’s despite his attempts at restraint. His muscles gave out and he collapsed atop it, quickly recouping to struggle out of its grip, but it was too strong and its long limbs kept him trapped against its body. “Frankly, we thought she was an aberration and you preferred them young and male.”_

 _It gripped John by his hair, so similar to John’s earlier actions, but lacking any of the gentleness he’d shown. “So does this mean you’re finally giving us what we want?”  
_   
_“Fuck you,” John spat angrily, stilling in his struggles when he realized that his traitorous body was enjoying the memory of his wife pressed beneath him with far less discrimination than he would wish._

 _“Oh, you already did that,” it purred, licking a long strip up his cheek before biting his ear sharply and drawing blood. “You killed one of ours. That’s against the rules, Father Winchester.”_

 _John was unable to focus on anything more than his Mary’s face beneath him, gazing up at him with those soulless black eyes. “Why’d they send **you**? What happened to the other one?”_

 _The demon rolled John over with a nudge of its hip, straddling him as it pinned his wrists over his head. “It lost control of you. It was no longer of use to us.”  
_   
_John had to close his eyes, the image of his Mary sitting atop him making something stir longingly in his belly. “But why **you**?” he asked again helplessly. “How did they **know**?” His body went slack, the fight draining out of him._

 _“You know they only bring me out to punish you when you’ve been a bad boy, Johnny. I’m your guilty conscience – that mistake you made as a young seminarian oh-so-many years ago. You don’t remember that? She came to you with her son asking for help. Her husband beat her.”_

 _It leaned over him, Mary’s warm smile stretching into a mockery of the affectionate and understanding woman he had known. “You took advantage, then sent her back to him. Had to hide the fact that your counseling sessions led to that growing lump in her belly.”_

 _John turned his face away from the demon’s satisfied expression hovering over him as it purred cruelly, “Had to send away the temptation of that adorable little boy she brought with her.” He couldn’t listen to any more of this; he had never hated another man more than he hated Father John Winchester._

 _“Husband wasn’t happy,” it continued, uncaring of the pain that showed in John’s face. “Sold the baby as soon as it was born, while she was still unconscious in the hospital – got rid of the older one, too…some guy named Deidrich? It **destroyed** her. Tried to off herself to get away ‘cause she thought they were dead.”_

 _The demon flipped its hair over, showing John the small, round bullet hole just behind its ear. “She was a vegetable, so we got dibs. The HMOs were more than willing to give us access to unclaimed bodies with no insurance.”_

 _“Stop, **please** ,” John begged quietly, trembling from a stark chill that had taken hold of him._

 _It ignored his murmuring pleas, raking its nails down his chest and leaving thin trails of blood oozing in bright lines across his skin. “I haven’t played with a human for **years** ,” it said with pleasure. “Maybe they’ll let me keep you. You’re not nearly as soft,” it tittered with wicked glee, “as they said.” It leaned in, teeth grazing his jawline as it whispered suggestively, “I wonder what sounds you’d make if I whipped you.”  
_   
_Its tone became more business-like and it sat back, rubbing its palms together as if trying to clean off the blood. “We know where you’ve been. Where should we meet you to pick up our packages?”_

 _John’s muscles tensed in disgust as its hands dropped to trail teasingly over his nipples. He gathered his reserves, telling himself that this wasn’t Mary, no matter how convincing the lies his body betrayed him for._

 _“Where should we meet you? You agreed to deliver **all** of the Chosen to us!” it demanded again, its tone hardening.  
_   
_“In Hell,” John roared, shoving at the creature with all his strength. He rolled off the bed with it, getting quickly to his feet as it watched him angrily from its position on the floor._

 _John gazed down at the figure of Mary crouched like a cat waiting to pounce, a coldness settling deep within his soul at the sight of her warm face burdened with the blazing blackness of those shark’s eyes._

 _“You have no power over me! I made no deals with you and yours!” John told the creature wrapped in his wife’s skin. “I am going to **wake the fuck up**!”_

 _The demon wearing Mary’s face sprang for him and John backed up against the wall, his head thunking solidly against the plaster. “Wake up!” he repeated loudly, slamming his head harder against the wall behind him as it approached. It became his prayer, his unending litany punctuated by the sound of his skull hitting the unyielding surface. “Wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup….”  
_  
“Wake up, Father John,” Sam told him with a gentle shake to his shoulder. “It’s your turn to drive.”

John blinked groggily at the young man who smiled so kindly at him, nodding in agreement even as the pain pulsed relentlessly in the confines of his skull.

                                                                          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Demons lie. That was one of the first things his sons had been taught about these devil’s creatures. Which meant that maybe what the demon wearing Mary’s face said wasn’t true.

John hoped to God it wasn’t, but he doubted that it needed to lie.

One thing it had said was most definitely true. Their time had run out. With a firm starting point, the demons would be already on their trail. By leaving a body cooling behind them, the local police and various national agencies were also now a concern; from what John recalled the boys telling him, killing one of the possessed was illegal, something akin to a hate crime with federal statutes making the red tape thick and cumbersome.

Crossing the border just became a whole lot harder; John hoped to God that Canada did not permit extradition in cases involving demonic possession.

They took turns driving. The previous timeline that had granted them the cushion of the several months leading up to the vernal equinox had been obliterated when Sam crushed that demon’s current skull with a bar stool.

John declared strict measures, an irrefutable law that must be heeded at all costs: No more stops – no motels, no restaurants; if they couldn’t get it from a window while sitting in the car, then it wasn’t necessary.

This plan was blown the first time one of the boys had to go to the bathroom.

“I gotta go, Dean,” Sam mumbled crankily under his breath.

“Hold it, Sam,” John ordered.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam stated more firmly, knowing that if he could work his wiles on the driver of the car, they would be stopping no matter what noise came from the back seat. “I’m not kidding.”

John held an empty water bottle over the front seat. Hell, it had worked when his boys were young.

Dean swatted it out of his hand with a look of disgust aimed at John from the rearview mirror. “ _Dude_. No one is _pissing_ in my car.” Sam screwed his face up into something that incredibly blended pleading and pissed off. “ _No_ ,” Dean reiterated, “not even if you were fuckin’ Bambi Woods.” Dean gave John another pointed glare over his shoulder. “We are _stopping_.”

Sam had the gall to toss a triumphant smirk over his shoulder at John sitting slumped in the backseat. John sighed inwardly, already missing the quiet, reserved young man that actually heeded his words.

Sam was fidgeting wildly in his seat by the time the familiar blue sign declaring Rest Stop grew larger along the roadside. Dean pressed his foot more firmly on the pedal, taking the turn out with practiced ease as he sped the short distance to the lot covered with the large brick restrooms, vending machines and picnic tables.

Sam was out of the car before it came to a complete stop, carelessly slamming the door behind him as Dean yelled out a muffled protest through the closed window. With a hesitant glance back at John, Dean shrugged, getting out of the car to check out the vending machines.

John sighed in resignation. This plan was obviously working at optimal proficiency. He reluctantly followed the boys outside, giving the car a wistful glance as they left it parked in the shadow of a nearly leafless tree, the vehicle pinging almost plaintively as the engine cooled after so many hours on the road. Its only company was a beat-up Dodge occupying a space several yards away.

The men’s restroom was located around the back of the left half of the building. Dean was perusing the options of selected cholesterols, trans-fats, and sugars encased in the several vending machines taking up the far wall. John could already see that dinner was going to be memorable.

John plucked a few maps from what was graciously termed the Visitors’ Center, opening the most promising to study the quickest route north-ward. Awkwardly attempting to refold the paper with his fumbling fingers, John froze in shock, the crumpled map fluttering to the floor as he stared at the two large Wanted posters gracing the chipped brick wall by the drinking fountains.

Sam and Dean. Fuck, these guys worked fast.

Before the thought finished processing, John’s curt voice cut through the crisp evening air, bellowing harshly, “ _Dean_! Get your ass in the car _now_! I’m getting Sam!” Dean hesitated for only a moment before turning at a quick clip towards the car, getting it running and ready for a speedy get-away.

John raced his way around back towards the restrooms to grab Sam, pausing in his tracks when he heard a sharp voice ask, “Hey, freak. I asked you what that was on your arm!”

John burst in to find a large, bearded man – the owner of the Dodge he would guess – twisting Sam’s arm by the wrist and baring his forearm to the flickering overhead light, the tattoo stark against the pale skin that hadn’t seen the sun in over a year. “It _is_ you,” the man grinned excitedly. “The guy on the poster. You know how much I’ll get for turnin’ you in?” John saw Sam’s dangling hand curling into a fist and he stepped in to take control of the situation.

John slipped the gun out of his belt, smoothly placing it against the back of the man’s head and cocking it to make a point. His entire arm shook at the effort of keeping the gun steady with his finger on the trigger, the strain of such precise motion straining the weakened muscles in his hand. “Sam,” John said evenly, not allowing his physical frailty to show in his voice. “Get to the car. Dean’s waiting.”

Sam hesitated, studying John’s face before giving a nod of agreement. He readied to turn, and then his hand tightened into a fist and he swung at the man’s head, the man nearly falling over from the force of the blow. “You don’t get to touch me, you bastard,” Sam told him firmly before striding rapidly out of the door.

“Hey…hey, buddy. You ain’t gonna shoot. I’ll split the reward money with you. It’s all good. Got a cell phone in my pocket and a CB in the car. We can call the cops….”

John had walked through the metaphorical fire several times in his life, each new step paring away the old John Winchester and leaving behind something new – not always _better_ , but something different, just the same. 

The first time was when he left home to join the Marines, his mother weeping copious tears as her baby boy walked stiff-backed down the driveway with his father’s curt reminders about how he wasn’t good for anything but dying in some back-asswards Commie country slashing cruelly at his back.

The second was when John first killed a man, watching the light die in his eyes as John gutted him silently in the dark, swampy jungles of some nameless place across the sea – imagining it was his father hadn’t eased the ache one bit.

The third time, when Mary finally made John believe he was someone worth loving – bringing John home, hearth, and family with her simple presence in his life, was quickly followed by the fourth, the sight of his wife gutted and burning on the ceiling over their son’s crib.

This was the next. He’d sworn to protect these boys from what was after them – the scope had merely broadened to encompass human as well as demon in the span of the last few minutes. John refused to fail this Sam and Dean as he’d failed his own children.

“Sounds good,” John agreed, relocking the safety with a loud click as he settled a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Let me help you up.” As the man leaned forward to struggle to his feet, John’s arm snaked around his throat and, with a quick twist, he snapped his neck, letting the stranger’s body fall limply to the dirty floor of the restroom.

A couple of minutes later he was back in the warmth of the rumbling Impala, calmly ordering Dean to drive back out onto the highway. Sam gave him a knowing glance, but remained quiet despite Dean’s questions.

John would keep these boys safe, no matter what it took - his life and his soul were both worth shit. His soul was already damned, so there wasn’t any harm in digging a little deeper. John’s life? Not so much _his_ as the man’s whose body he currently inhabited. He didn’t give a fuck about _either_ John Winchester. Neither one mattered as much as those two young men sitting in the front seat.

Back at the rest stop in a locked corner stall, the body slumped against the wall as it tilted precariously to the right, its foot sliding out just a little further from underneath the door.

                                                                        ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The boys were more in agreement with the no stopping policy after they heard their faces were plastered on nearly every flat surface from Nebraska to the border. John briefly debated the merits of going deeper undercover and having the boys dye their hair blonde or something, then realized that the Aryan perfection that would undoubtedly result from a Dean dye job might attract more attention than they wanted.

And Sam would have looked just plain silly as a blonde – perhaps black? Oh, yeah – Surfer Boy and his sidekick Vampiro would attract absolutely no attention at all.

So, with Clairol off the list and their faces more well-known than the most recent _American Idol_ contestants – _did they have that here?_ John wondered idly – all stops were made in the safety of darkness where John served as their front man.

John felt a momentary flash of guilt for enjoying the fact that these boys needed him; his own boys hadn’t _needed_ him for years. He tried to train that dependence right out of his boys before Sam was old enough to hold a weapon; John chose to ignore it whenever signs showed he’d failed. Being needed felt _good_ – reminded him of the father he’d been before things got so fucked up.

As they continued to drive into the night, the inky sky blazed with a bright smattering of stars, lighting their way along with the icy blue glow of the quarter moon. They rode on, cocooned in black painted steel and warm leather as if the Impala were trying its best to offer what camouflage it could from any prying eyes. The swiftly moving vehicle was the only sign of life for miles on these back roads that wound like a funeral ribbon through the vast empty spaces between the small, slumbering towns that didn’t even stir an eyelid as the Impala purred its way through, its low growl rippling across the surface of their dreams.

John leaned his head onto the wide ledge under the arching rear window, straining back until he could gaze upwards at the wide scape of stars twinkling overhead. This was a good moment. They were safe and free and…fam-.

 _No_. John buried that thought somewhere deep, the sharp sting of the unwitting betrayal of his boys making it impossible to bring that thought to completion. He _already_ had a family. It wasn’t right to try to replace what he’d lost with another one.

He didn’t deserve it.

John stared endlessly upward, trying to empty his mind of all thoughts until his eyes started to lose focus and his tenuous grip on consciousness began to slip. As John’s eyelids slowly grew heavier, the blazing stars overhead seemed to swirl in lazy looping spirals closer to the car, dancing their way through the vibrant beams of the headlights as they transformed into a flurry of flakes that concealed the car and its riders under a light dusting of the last winter snow.   



	8. Chapter 8

“We can’t hike from here, Dean,” Sam’s sensible voice stated, awakening John in the dim gray light of dawn. “We’re going to have to stick to the roads for as long as possible.”

“Shit, Sam,” Dean complained. “You know they’re gonna have every road covered. I say we slap on an extra pair of socks and try to slog our way through rather than risk getting caught by a border patrol.”

John yawned, stretching lithely along the back seat as he groused teasingly, “When did you two switch personalities?”

“While you were sleeping, apparently,” Dean grumbled unhappily. “Be serious, Sam. You know staying on the roads isn’t safe anymore.”

“I’m well aware of that, Dean,” Sam agreed. “But it’s cold and we don’t have the supplies to hike comfortably from here. We’ll worry about it when we get closer.”

“Closer?” Dean snorted. “I can practically feel the maple syrup congealing in my veins already. We’re like a breath away from the land of Celine Dion.”

“Boys,” John murmured softly, his eyes locked on the road ahead. “It’s too late.”

With that dramatic pronouncement, the bickering twosome finally focused on the road, noting the field station set up at the roadside with the two border patrol guards waiting patiently for them to approach. 

                                                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Impala rolled to a reluctant stop, Dean’s foot itching to press down on the gas pedal and just _go_ – go as fast and far as they could before anyone could even think about pursuing them. His faithful steed would be nothing more than a speck on the horizon by the time they rolled their police-issued sedan onto the blacktop.

A gentle pressure made Dean still his anxiously jiggling leg, and he glanced down to see Sam’s hand gripping him firmly on the thigh, his long thumb soothingly brushing along the outer seam of Dean’s jeans as if calming a nervous animal.

“We can do this, Dean,” Sam murmured under his breath, giving Dean a faint smile before indicating he should roll down the window with a barely perceptible tilt of his head.

John’s voice came thoughtfully from the depths of the back seat, his words unconsciously heavy with threat. “Only two of them….”

Sam derailed that train of thought with a piercing glance that told John that maybe Sam knew more about what had happened back at the rest stop than he had let on.

“Good morning, sir,” Dean said mildly after rolling down the window. “Did I take a wrong turn? I thought the border was still about a couple of miles way.”

The guard laughed ruefully. “Yeah, still in its usual place. Just serving as a double check on this side to keep illegals from gaining access to the border.” He glanced at the other officer standing on the opposite side of the car and added, “Also working on training the newbie.” The man pushed the brim of his hat up and stated clearly, “As a lawfully bound officer of the U.S. Customs and Border Protection Agency, it is my duty to ask you to extend your left arm from the vehicle, palm facing up.” 

Dean’s eyes flicked to John’s in the rearview mirror.

“ _Sir_ ,” the officer demanded more loudly, causing his partner to take position on Sam’s side of the car, his hand on the butt of his pistol. “Please extend your left arm from the vehicle, palm facing up.”

John blinked slowly, nodding his head a fraction of an inch as his hand slid under the flap of his coat, edging towards his gun.

Dean hesitantly did as he was told, holding his arm out, the limb shaking slightly as he stared straight out the front window, eyes on the horizon as if what were happening weren’t happening to _him_ – as if it weren’t _his_ body being forced to do what it was told, like it had to when he was younger. The guard grabbed him by the wrist, pressing downward so Dean’s arm bent at an awkward angle, making it nearly impossible for Dean to break free without fracturing his arm.

With his free hand, the guard carefully rolled up Dean’s sleeve, baring his pale forearm and the tattoo inked so perfectly into the flesh. Dean kept his eyes forward, his jaw clenching and making the cords of his neck stand out sharply, carving well-defined lines down the column of his throat. The officer, still keeping Dean’s arm in position, pulled a small machine off his belt and swept it over the tattoo, the red light scanning the numbers in an instant like he was a stick of beef jerky at a 7-11.

The man studied the display screen on the back, his eyes quickly moving up to Dean’s face as he opened his mouth to alert his partner to whatever information had flashed on the screen. One didn’t need to be a psychic like Sam to know that it couldn’t be good. The barrel of John’s gun slid out between the edge of the driver’s seat and the frame of the window, the menacing gleam of the metal catching the guard’s eye as John murmured with undisguised menace, “Let me guess, you came up with nothing. We’re free to go.”

The officer’s eyes flicked towards his partner, who was standing casually on the other side of the car, staring slightly off to the left. He turned his gaze back onto John and nodded slightly, calling out over the black expanse of roof, “Let them through, Officer _Baretta_.”

At this statement, the other guard’s eyes widened in a flash of understanding before he tried to quickly school his features into smoothness as he covertly reached for the panic button on his belt. John snapped out, “Sam!” the sound echoing through the car as John brought down the gun butt on the officer’s wrist with a sharp crack of bone, forcing his grip from Dean’s arm.

Sam shoved open his car door, knocking the other guard down a second too late, the man’s body sprawling indecorously across the pavement. The officer clumsily reached for his gun, shooting before he even took aim, bullets penetrating the sleek black skin of the Impala and hitting the back tire with a soft hiss of escaping air, a similar sound coming from Sam as a bullet lodged in his shoulder, leaving a spot of red staining his jacket.

With a growl, Sam kicked out, sending the weapon flying off into the grass at the side of the road, leaving the young officer whimpering and clutching his hand to his chest.

At this point, Dean had the other officer pinned to the ground, John standing over them both with the gun held deceptively steady. The guard stared up at John, his eyes heavy with understanding as he braced his wrist with his other hand. “It’s too late. They’re already on their way.”

Sam jogged over, explaining softly, “Other one’s handcuffed to the fence. Car’s a mess, tire’s blown.”

Dean’s head perked up at the news, his frown deepening even further. “My car is _what_?!” he cried, before noting the blood darkening Sam’s jacket. “You OK, Sammy?”

Sam nodded curtly. “I tried their vehicle, but it won’t turn over.”

The officer nodded. “We’re on lockdown once the panic button’s hit. Last scanned info has been sent to all local agencies, demonic and otherwise. They’ll be here soon enough – before you can even blink.” He stared openly up at them, a tinge of sadness flashing over his features. “You better start running.”

So they did. 

                                                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It may not have been a four-minute mile, but it was pretty impressive for a bunch of men who were on their last legs. Sam’s stumbling forced them to slow down, his face pale as the red stain on his shoulder grew larger.

“Dammit, Sam,” Dean growled, forcing him up against a tree. “Why didn’t you say it was this bad?

“I’ll be…fine,” Sam panted softly, his lips a faint gray. “We just need to keep going.”

“It’s not worth it if you die on me, Sammy,” Dean replied, leaning his forehead briefly against Sam’s good shoulder. Dean pulled back, looking determined, and quickly shed his outer shirt, using his switchblade to tear it into strips. Once Sam was bandaged, he wrapped his arm around Sam’s waist, taking his weight as they walked steadily toward the demarcation line in the distance that marked their hope for freedom.

The border wasn’t composed of tall steel gates with coils of barbed wire strewn like streamers along its length. It was something simpler, but far more effective against what they were trying to keep out - a subterranean iron pipe lined with blessed rock salt buried beneath the soil. Canada was neutral territory – the heavily armed militia that patrolled the Canadian side couldn’t step over that line to help any refugees without threat of an international incident, but once any refugees set foot on home soil, all newcomers were protected by the guards that stood at the ready at all manned outposts.

The problem was going to be getting there before the demons found them.

They could see the wide swatch of dead vegetation surrounding the buried salt line, the goal within sight. Dean walked a little more quickly, practically dragging Sam’s weight with him. “C’mon, Sammy….nearly there. Move your ass.”

A faint feminine voice came from off to their right and Dean paused, a flash of disbelief crossing over his face. He turned slightly, squinting into the light of the rising sun, watching as a shadow took shape in the blinding brightness, its skirt swirling temptingly in the soft breeze as the voice came again, the call pleading as if seeking something long lost. “Deeeeaaaannn.”

Dean’s arm loosened around Sam’s body and Sam sagged against him, almost unable to hold up his own weight.

“Dean, baby. It’s me…it’s _Mommy_. Come to Mommy, baby. I missed you so _much_!” Mary stepped into the shadow of a large pine, her features finally visible as she held her arms open wide, her smile lighting up her face as she looked at her son.

Dean hesitated, confusion flickering over his features as Sam hung loosely at his side. “M-Mom?”

“Yes, baby! It’s been so long! I want to give you a hug…come _here_ , Dean.”

Dean took a step forward before John laid a restraining hand on his arm. “She’s one of them, Dean.”

“But…it’s my mom. She was never tagged. My…” a look of distaste swept over his face, “… _father_ said she was just too…sick to take care of me anymore.”

“She’s _dead_ , Dean. That’s just her body.”

Dean blinked at him in disbelief, the desire to believe it was her painfully evident in his face. That familiar simmering hatred surged across his features in a flash before settling beneath the placid surface as he turned towards his mother. “Mom, where have you been?”

“I was sick, baby, but I’m better now. I’ve been searching for you for _such_ a long time!” Mary’s blonde hair blew in soft strands over her face, her smile never wavering as she gestured for Dean to come closer. “You can bring your friend Sam, too. We can all live together like a happy family!”

Dean took a few hesitant steps forward, ignoring John’s muffled protests as Dean’s legs almost involuntarily drew him nearer to her. He paused, his head lifting to study his mother only several short yards away. “How did you know his name?” Dean asked softly, the obvious disappointment in the line of his drooping shoulders almost burning a hole in John’s heart.

“What, baby? Come closer. I can’t hear you.” Mary cocked her head to the side, her features glowing with something that might have been mistaken for joy, but slowly edged its way towards triumph.

Dean’s back stiffened and he screamed, “ _How did you know his name?!_ ”

With a strangled sob, he turned his back on her, hefting Sam’s nearly limp body upright and guiding him towards John. Dean stopped beside John, unable to meet his eyes. “Do it,” Dean ordered, his voice breaking. “That’s _not_ my mother.”

John nodded in understanding, pushing Dean in the direction of the buried salt line as he took aim and shot the demon as it screeched towards them, stilling it in its tracks as it fell backwards from the force of the bullet.

John straddled its body as it gurgled laughingly, “That won’t kill me, fool.”

“No,” John agreed. “But this will make it hard to keep going.” And with that, he laid the blade of his hunting knife across its throat and leaned his full weight on it, its eyes widening in understanding as he severed the thin muscles of its neck with ease. When the blade hit bone, it stilled, but the demonic oily smoke was already collecting in a hazy shape over the body before it shrieked off into the distance, blending subtly with the roaring sound of the helicopters flying in below the clouds.

John stared down at the face of his wife – the face of the woman that _this_ Father John Winchester had betrayed so cruelly – and leaned forward, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. “Goodbye, Mary. Your sons are going to be OK. I _promise_.” 

                                          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John saw the small group of black clad commandoes creeping silently through the tree-line before he even neared Dean and the still struggling Sam. Under the distant hum of the helicopters, John could hear a low undercurrent of growls and barks, rising in pitch as they neared. A chill prickled over his skin, the sound of the approaching hellhounds scaring his primal side far more than the men – demons, rather, because they wouldn’t want any humans to see the laws that kept them fettered be completely abandoned - slinking through the trees just a few yards behind them.

“Dean! Run!” One of the guards took John down as he called out in warning, and they rolled together in the grass, punching and kicking wildly at each other.

Dean barely glanced over his shoulder before he saw the small group of demon guards swarming from the trees and broke into a loping run for the line only a few yards away, urging Sam on with grunts of encouragement. “Gotta help me a little, Sammy,” he panted roughly. “You’re a heavy son-of-a-bitch.” Sam mumbled something incoherent in agreement, his fumbling feet more a hindrance than a help as Dean lugged him several feet forward.

“God-dammit, Sam,” Dean ordered. “Get your seven league legs in gear!”

A loud crackling of leaves alerted Dean to something’s approach to his right, and with a strenuous heave, he pushed Sam ahead of him, turning to protect Sam’s flank. Sam lurched clumsily to the side, his gaze unfocused as he teetered forward the few feet he’d been pushed. Dean stood his ground, his mind buzzing with the directive to save Sam above all else. 

                                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam’s limp body fell over the line as he finally lost consciousness, just as one of the demon guards leapt for Dean, pushing Dean away from the haven a few feet away across the border. Its body rebounded off the invisible barrier, sprawling several yards from both John and Dean, Dean still struggling to his knees as John knocked his opponent aside with a lucky blow to his midsection.

John crawled forward as Dean fought off another guard, splaying his spasming hand onto the dead hollow of grass that marked where the subterranean iron pipe lay buried beneath the soil. It served satisfactorily as a rudimentary barrier, but wasn’t an active offense against what was coming after them. It was like any other salt line, a quick and simple closed door – an _unlocked_ door that could be removed as a blockade if just given enough time to work. The line needed a purpose, it needed a calling – it needed something to focus its protective power to a specific target.

Mumbling under his breath, John began the ritual to activate the barrier’s potential energy, ordering it to come to their aid. " _Per mari terraeque deos, me meosque protege de superno et infero foco. Tibi dabo benedictionem meam et tibi quoque divinitatem. O sale ab terra mareque, simul ligato vitae sale mihi dato, tuo servo divino. Nos adjuva, filios tuos, in hac necessitate nostra."  
_  
The earth beneath John’s fingers hummed quietly, heeding his call, but unable to fulfill it without the final component. As John reached for the knife he kept strapped to his belt, one of the demons grabbed him by ankle and dragged him away from the border, creating space within which to fight. John kicked out, sending it flying before he got to his feet and he and Dean backed towards each other. A semicircle of guards swung around behind them, separating them from sanctuary only a quick sprint away.

“Give me your knife, Father,” Dean hissed. “You know your grip is still weak.” Without waiting for John’s agreement, Dean grabbed for the hilt, yanking it out with a rough tug that nearly split the sheath along the thinning leather at the top.

Dean held the knife in his trembling hand, facing off against the demons that surrounded them.

John knew they were fucked. There was no way out of this that he could see and the ritual still needed his blood to activate – the more, the better.

John straightened, turning and grabbing Dean around the neck, pinning his arm against his side to keep the blade out of play. “I’ve got him!” he called out to the demons as he took a couple of swaggering steps backwards, Dean struggling wildly in his arms. The demons edged in closer, a look of calm assurance flowing over their features as things started to go according to plan. John estimated the few feet left to the border, directing Dean’s struggles to guide them closer to the humming line.

Panic gave Dean strength and he used his training to swing John’s arm around behind him, trading places with the man holding him captive and placing the edge of the blade against John’s throat. “This had better be some kind of fuckin’ brilliant plan you’ve got goin’ on here,” Dean sputtered angrily, his eyes wide with nervousness.

John saw the hellhounds running speedily along the border, edging their way silently through the trees as they circled to come up behind Dean, the demons swaggering nearer and licking their lips with anticipation.

There wasn’t time. The demons had been only playing with them so far, but they were quickly losing patience.

John said evenly, “I’m the one who betrayed you and Sammy.”

Dean’s arm stiffened around him, waning trust warring with disbelief evident in the harsh breath that brushed John’s ear.

It wasn’t enough.

“I get to fuck Sam first before they take him. That was the deal…just like with your mother.”

In one fluid motion, Dean arched John’s body back against him, slicing open John’s throat with a quick twist of his wrist. As the blood soaked into John’s shirtfront, Dean absently shoved him towards the line, trying to block the on-coming dogs with John’s body. He sprinted off in the opposite direction, zig-zagging his way around the guards and dogs trying to block his path to freedom.

John gurgled raspily, his breath unable to make it to his lungs. Holding onto life with a tenuous grasp, he crawled the last few feet towards the buried salt line, praying Dean didn’t run too far in the wrong direction.

With one last heave of effort, John collapsed across the barrier, his blood still leaking freely into the parched grass delineating the salt line buried beneath them. As the dry earth greedily drank the fluid spilling from his throat, the quiet hum that had been the nearly activated barrier sharpened to shrill keen that cut through the air in the span of a second, a sheet of spectral blue flame leaping up from the line in the earth. Every demon and hell-beast within a hundred yards of the barrier burst into ash, leaving a solitary Dean running wildly in the opposite direction.

Noting the sudden absence of the sounds of pursuit, Dean slowed, pausing to glance back at the now empty fields behind him. Glancing furtively from side-to-side, he changed direction, jogging slowly back towards the now invisible line where a barely conscious Sam was trying to drag John across the barrier towards him.

“Leave him there, Sam!” Dean barked as he strode over the border to stand next to him.

“I’m _not_ …” Sam panted, John’s limp body far heavier than he would have guessed, “…leaving him there to be hung out as an example to others trying to help people like us.” Sam tried to apply pressure to the still bleeding wound, John’s eyelids fluttering lazily as the blood seeped between Sam’s fingers.

“He wasn’t helping _us_ , Sam!” Dean shouted angrily. “He was helping himself!”

Sam gave Dean a look that surprised the older man, making Dean feel a tiny sliver of doubt for a moment. Sam leaned closely over John’s face, John’s tiny gurgles of breath warming Sam’s ear. Sam turned slightly, whispering against rapidly cooling skin as John’s pulse took several seconds to stutter once more against Sam’s questing fingers, “It’s probably better that he doesn’t understand.”

When Sam pulled away, acknowledgement glimmered in John’s eyes. With the last feeble flutter of his heart, John saw Sam and Dean standing over him, Sam leaning against Dean for support, side-by-side, the two of them against the world.

And then everything went black. 

                                                    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The blackness opened into a cool, starry night, mist gathering around the tombstones as spectral shades flickered in and out of sight around him. A surge of roiling black smoke curled over John’s head, erupting from an open tomb behind him with piercing shrieks of triumph.

Ahead of him, he saw two familiar figures standing off against the Demon that had taken his life, that had murdered his Mary, and he ran forward past Ellen and Bobby straining against the large stone doors of the sepulchre.

John tried to cry out in warning, but he could still feel the slice through his vocal cords with the sticky sensation of blood on his shirt, even as he reached up to run his fingers over the smooth skin now covering his neck. He glanced down at his spotless shirtfront, confusion making him reel on his feet for a moment.

John surged forward when he saw Sam go flying back against a tree, landing with a sickening thud as he lay splayed like a bug against the trunk. The yellow-eyed Demon crouched over Dean, chortling in victory, and John could see that whatever bile it was spewing was hurting Dean more than any slash or broken bone.

The creature stood upright, a broad smile stretching across its weathered human face as it aimed the Colt at John’s son, and with a sudden surge of determination, John swept over the last few feet and wrapped his arms around the body currently housing the Demon, his hands still not obeying his demands for fine movement. Tugging sharply, John pulled the Demon free of its host, the man’s body slumping to the ground and dropping the Colt as John struggled to restrain the coiling funnel of smoke.

Dean grabbed for the weapon as the oily wreath escaped John’s clutches, spilling back into the host’s body. The Demon lurched unsteadily to his feet, seeking the Colt only to find it pointed squarely at him. With a grim smile, Dean pulled the trigger.

As the body hit the ground with a dull thud, Dean was already staring at his father with a dumbfounded expression, Sam slowly creeping closer, his eyes fixated on John’s shimmering form.

No sound could escape his throat, the reminder of his shredded vocal cords still carrying over in these early minutes after his last death. But John smiled proudly, reaching out to lay his hand on Deans’ shoulder, squeezing gently as he nodded. Then he turned to face Sam - _his_ Sam – and his smile widened, the slow trickle of tears dampening his cheeks.

John felt a gentle tug on his arm, pulling him away as a comforting feminine voice brushed by his ear. “It’s done. Your boys are finally safe.”

John could barely tear his eyes away from his sons long enough to glance at the woman standing so stoically beside him, her bobbed black hair framing her pale skin and making her appear almost luminous in the shadows of the cemetery. Her dark eyes warmed him, washing away the doubts and reassuring him with their honest clarity.

“It’s not their time to see me,” she explained as John refocused on his boys, unable to believe he was lucky enough to see them again. “Yet…” she added as an afterthought, smirking slightly as she stuffed the stack of Winchester rain-checks back into her pocket.

She guided him further away from his sons, still staring at him with such flabbergasted amazement that John nearly laughed, a smile beginning to stretch over his features.

The air around him sparked with untapped energy, and he felt his skin start to itch with anticipation. The woman glanced up at the slowly coalescing lights and grumbled good-naturedly, “It was so much less tacky when it was bells. Bells are classic – then they had to go all Tinkerbell….”

John suddenly recalled the precarious position he’d left the other Sam and Dean in when he arrived here and he paused, before feeling her hand gently squeeze his arm. “They’re fine. You got your second chance and didn’t screw it up. 30-1 odds and everything.”

John ignored everything but her reassurance – _they’re fine_ – and heaved a sigh of relief.

 _Both_ sets of his boys were safe.

With that realization, his soul flew free of its fetters, the pure joy of this moment filling him until everything was bathed in the soothing light of serenity.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what uranium's father translated for me; it was the ritual that activated the salt barrier. By the gods of earth and sea, protect me and mine from the fire that reigns from above and below. I grant you my blessing, I grant you my trust, I grant you divinity. Salt from earth and salt from sea, bound together by the salt of life granted to me, thy divine servant. Help us, your children, in our time of need.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
> In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. = In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.
> 
> …princeps militiae caelestis/Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos/qui ad perditionem animarum/pervagantur in mundo…. = This is part of the Prayer to St. Michael the Archangel. In its entirety, it reads: Saint Michael the Archangel/defend us in battle/be our defense against the wickedness/and snares of the devil/May God rebuke him/we humbly pray/And do thou/O prince of the heavenly host/by the power of God/thrust into hell/Satan and all the evil spirits/who prowl about the world/for the ruin of souls. Amen.


End file.
